Oh No!
by My name's AC
Summary: Pranks and sweet moments shared by all Sherlock characters. No one is safe. (All thanks to Tumblr and their headcanons!) - Completed - chapter 30 is up.
1. Sherlock's prank

**I'd like to thank Tumblr for the marvelous idea. All I have to say is "Headcanon accepted!". Oh, and enjoy! ^_^**

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><p>Cautiously he turned the key in lock. He twisted the doorknob slowly so that it wouldn't trigger any noise. Once he entered, he walked directly, but quietly, to his brother's bedroom. There he was sleeping without even knowing that Sherlock was walking around the house.<p>

He smirked upon the thought of how easily he could strangle him; he did say at John's wedding that it'd be utterly easy to do so. Oh, the so many times Mycroft had annoyed him, and the so many different scenarios he had pictured in his mind that resulted in perfect homicidal opportunities. Still he shook his head. He had annoyed him once again, and now he was going to set of scores like the very grown up man he was. Over the bedside table were a book and his reading glasses placed on top of it. His phone was there too, with the screen facing down. And so he started his very mature and evil-ish revenge plan.

He turned over the phone and moved the book and the glasses to opposite edge of the bedside table. Then he glanced the bedroom; there it was the door to his walk-in-wardrobe. There Mycroft kept all his suits, shirts, ties and shoes, perfectly lined and categorized according to colour and usage. Sherlock had a tingling feeling inside, excited like a small infant, not even knowing where to start messing with his brother's very organized wardrobe.

He quickly found enough ideas to make Mycroft go crazy as he disorganized no more than five suits, four pair of shoes, three ties and two shirts. Yes, he perfectly calculated that way so he'd leave his brother wondering what had he done with the _one_ belt. Satisfied with his sadistic deed he moved to the living room. He couldn't do much without creating much noise so he was very thorough with what he was going to do.

Of course-just moving all the furniture _slightly_ out of alignment would be spot on. Moving the table, the chairs, the couch. He did the same in the kitchen, leaving cabinets' doors open and changing places of products and packages. Though, when he got to his office room, Sherlock felt tempted in overstepping the mark. He took some books of the bookshelf and scattered them all over the floor. Everything that was over Mycroft's desk was changed place too; what was on the right was moved to the left and vice-versa. Ultimately he couldn't resist in dragging the chair to the outside of the room. He ended up leaving it by the closed door of the office room.

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><p>Mycroft had not even put his feet on the floor and could sense that something was wrong with his house. Every morning he stretches his hand to grab his phone. Today was no different, except for the fact that his still sleepy eyes gazed the back of the phone. He opened his eyes and noticed that the book was at the end of the bedside table. He kicked his sleepiness away as he kicked back the bed sheets. Looking up at the rest of the room, something struck him immediately. The walk-in-closet. The door was slightly open and he could see a red shirt. The red shirt <em>is<em> not kept there.

He walked to check on his clothing noticing immediately which were out of place. Five suits, four pair of shoes, three ties, two shirts and one… It had to be _one_ thing out of place, it was the rational thought. He double-checked his clothing arrangement and realized nothing else had been moved. Making his way to the kitchen he nearly collapsed on the floor as he saw cabinet's doors open and things out of their usual spots. Mycroft did not care about his tea anymore. He was not enjoying that joke anymore and he was sure that his whole house had been messed around.

"Oh dear…" He mumbled as an overwhelming sense of uneasiness came over him.

Everything was out of place. _Mere inches_, yes, but nothing was at its exact place. The office room… He breathed out deeply once he saw the chair outside the closed door. He moved it away and opened the door. Immediately he grasped tightly the doorframe. Books were laid all over the floor and his desk was mirrored.

"Ah, Sherlock," He sighed, boiling inside. "you've come too far to play with me."

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><p><strong>Would it be fair for Sherlock to prank Mycroft like this and expect him to do nothing? Of course not! Mycroft will set the scores right again in the next chapter.<strong>


	2. Mycroft's retaliation

**So here it is the new chapter. Enjoy! ^_^**

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><p>Sherlock got out of his flat, raising his hand, making a cab stop. Mycroft watched him from afar and when his brother was long gone down the road he started walking to 221B, whirling the umbrella as he strolled up the street, having a smoke.<p>

He rang the bell and while he waited for the door to be opened, he threw the cigarette on the floor and extinguished it, twisting his foot over it.

"Oh, what a lovely surprise," Mrs. Hudson said. "but Sherlock left just now. I suppose you'll wait for him, so I'll make you a cuppa-"

"Do not say another word." Mycroft told to the woman as she stepped back to let him in. "Bring some cleaning products and follow me."

"Cleaning products?" She asked, puzzled but Mycroft ignored her, making his way upstairs. "Why would I need them?"

The landlady followed after Mycroft and watched him stripping off his jacket and hanging it on the coat hanger. Then he walked to the window, observing the outside with his hands behind his back.

"Don't you agree that my brother's lack of hygiene is a bit of a problem?"

"He is very messy but he says that I can't touch anything because everything is at its proper place."

"He used that same answer with Mummy." Mycroft told her as he turned. "Now you have a chance to clean his flat and get rid of all of this… dirtiness."

"Oh, no-no," Mrs. Hudson puffed. "he doesn't even let me dusting!"

"Exactly," A wicked smile illuminated Mycroft's face features. "take your chance to do so."

"He'll make a revolution!" The woman excused herself.

"Deal with the cleanings, Mrs. Hudson. I take care of baby Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson was undecided if she should do it or not. The flat _clearly_ needed some cleaning but Sherlock would be mad. Still, she could easily put the blame on Mycroft; those two already had too much sibling rivalry going on between them, one more thing would not affect much.

Mycroft sketched a wider smile when Mrs. Hudson walked downstairs and brought with her a dust cloth, the vacuum cleaner and a window cleaner product. While she was on her trips to the floor below, Mycroft ran the drapes. The windows were jammed and sizzled when he finally opened them because of the rust, due to the extreme use that Sherlock gives them.

As Mrs. Hudson dusted off the furniture, Mycroft was going through his brother's stuff, hiding in his pockets the several cigarettes he found along the way.

"Are you just going to snatch your brother's cigarettes? I'm _not _going to be the blame for that either!" Mrs. Hudson grumbled. "I have a bad hip. And why are you doing this to your poor brother?" She asked him, placing her hands on her hips.

"_Poor brother_…" Mycroft scoffed. "He turned my house upside down last night! I'm just setting the score right again."

"Ah," The woman sighed. "you know, John is right. You two behave like five-year-olds sometimes."

Mycroft was surprised and offended with that. "John says that?"

"Yes." She walked over and handed him the window cleaner product. "Clean the windows if you so want to _set the score right away_!"

After a while Mrs. Hudson was removing him from that task. "The windows are smeared. Have you ever cleaned in your house?"

"No," He said, stroking his tie, sitting on the couch and crossing his leg. "that's why I pay 800 pounds to my cleaning lady-"

"800 pounds?" Mrs. Hudson repeated in a high pitched voice, shocked. "Dear, do you need a new cleaning lady? I'm very much trustworthy!"

Mycroft offered a forced smile. "No, I'm very satisfied with the services of my cleaning lady."

The man checked his wristwatch, watching the woman cleaning when she started vacuuming the floor.

"Feet, up!" She ordered.

Instead of raising his feet, Mycroft preferred to get up. While the woman vacuumed the floor, he changed spots all around the flat. She turned off the vacuum cleaner and told him. "Stop being a ballerina; stay at a single place."

"Well, I would if you weren't chasing me with that."

She pretended not to hear him as she turned on the vacuum cleaner and pointed him to walk to the kitchen. As the cleanings were done, it was time to put everything back in its place, or better yet, it was time to put things in fitting places. The room seemed totally different as each thing had its place, nothing was piled and nothing was dirty.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the kitchen and said. "It looks a bit depressing; the living room so clean and the kitchen a complete mess."

"Don't hold back yourself." Mycroft spoke very gladly, gesturing to the kitchen for her to clean too.

Mrs. Hudson nodded her head, yet, she gave him a look that made him feel guilty. He rolled up his sleeves and started washing the dishes that were in the sink. The landlady was tidying the counter when she spoke.

"How come you two are brothers? One is so messy and irresponsible, and the other so neat and authoritarian."

"The bigger the job importance, the greater responsibilities there is to bear." He looked at the woman and said to her. "I _do not_ make small talk, so if you try, I'll have your voice muted in my head."

"Oh, I can see now the brothers' similarities."

No further words were heard on that flat. After Mrs. Hudson cleaned the kitchen, she walked downstairs. No much longer after Lestrade texted Mycroft that Sherlock and John were returning to the flat. Mycroft rolled down his sleeves, put on his jacket and closed the windows. On his way down, he peered into the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was very furiously (and a bit homicidally) peeling potatoes.

"I'm going. If Sherlock wants to start World War III very gladly tell him that this was my idea." He gave two steps and but walked back again. "And… apologies for what I've said earlier."

Mycroft left the flat, whirling the umbrella, walking down the street. Sherlock walked in with John, the two discussing the details of their new case when doctor stopped by the door, gazing the clean flat. The consulting detective walked in too and yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"It was your brother, dear." She apologized from the floor below.

"When will you two stop behaving like five-year-olds?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him and started untidying the flat again, forgetting momentarily about the case. When he realized Mycroft had confiscated his cigarettes, he mumbled. "I need to find new person to prank."

John felt uneasy but it wouldn't be the first time he'd play a joke on him, so he wasn't actually _that_ concerned.

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><p><strong>A third chapter may happen. If so, it'll only depend on your reviews and it will be about Sherlock's new person to prank...<strong>


	3. Sherlock's new prey

**I actually struggled whether I'd write this chapter or not. I ended up doing so, at least one person asked me to do so and I keep my promises. Hope you enjoy.**

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><p>Greg Lestrade had in his hand the most intriguing, weird and difficult case he had to deal with, without a shadow of doubt. But he did not call Sherlock to help him. His chief superintendent was still resentful about the punch John threw him two years ago, and now with all that trouble of Moriarty being back, he didn't want his division to be compromised by the "weirdo detective wannabe" as he calls Sherlock.<p>

What he needed really was a coffee. And a doughnut. Yes, definitively a cup of steamy coffee and a jelly and sugary doughnut.

His chair spun as he got up and pulled the jacket that was resting in its back. He was dressing his blazer as he was making way out of the division. Lestrade trotted down the stairs hastily, his steps almost confused with small hops, arranging his shirt's collar. In his first stop on the café just down the street it was told to him that did not serve either coffee or doughnuts. He frowned; he always goes there and they always have coffee and doughnuts.

Strolling up the street he entered another café. Again he got the same answer. He was getting suspicious when the answer turned out to be the same when he visited a third café. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he read the message.

_You're my favourite Detective._

What the heck did Sherlock meant by that? He answered back at him with the first thought that stuck in his head.

_Are-are you flirting with me!?_

Then the right thought hit his mind: the case. Sherlock wanted to be part of the case. He grabbed his phone again and texted him.

_I'm not putting you up to this case, Sherlock!_

"It's shame, then." He said, standing behind him. Lestrade turned around startled. "No one in a five block area will sell you a cup of coffee or a doughnut either until I say the word."

"Sherlock!" He whined.

"If you change your mind you know where to find me." The consulting detective didn't say a word and started walking away, back to his flat. Lestrade scratched the back of his head and walked back to the station.

It was not even midday and he was already aching inside. He believed he was feeling worse than a pregnant woman with cravings. He then realized he was as addicted to caffeine as he was to nicotine. When he quit smoking he was having the same anxiety problems and unbearable urge to smoke, in this case, an unbearable urge to ingest caffeine. Lestrade stacked up all the case files he had about that particular murder case, got in his car and drove to 221B.

When Sherlock saw him arriving he prepared him a cup of coffee. Lestrade entered and the first thing he did was dropping over his desk the case files.

"Knock yourself up." He said defeated. "Can you now get people to sell me coffee again?"

He offered him the cup of coffee and told him. "Knock yourself up too."

Then Sherlock's attention turned to the case files as Lestrade sat on his armchair and crossed his legs, having his so deserved coffee.


	4. Sherlock's new prey II

**I didn't want to finish this fanfiction and someone suggested Sherlock pulling a prank on Donovan, so here it is.**

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><p>The day had been tiring, aiding her boss in the investigations. All that Donovan needed was a rest. The sound of the door opening echoed through the empty flat. Sally opened the door and immediately found something intriguing that made her hand travel to the holster and keep her fingers tangled around the gun. There was a woollen yarn right in front of her eyes. With the help of nightlight that entered through the window, she realized her <em>whole<em> was house crossed with woolen yarns, red ones.

Quietly she let the door close behind her and entered the room cautiously. She had to duck several times as the threads were messily crossing the rooms, stuck to the walls with adhesive tape. Suddenly she noticed something running around. Something glowing, furry. Her heart was racing, whatever was that, it wasn't funny anymore. Then she realized the prank _he_ had pulled on Lestrade just two days ago. That was Sherlock's thing, it had to be.

But that furry glowing thing running around was disturbing her. She didn't know what it was. So, she reached for her phone, calling Lestrade as she was carefully strolling after that mysterious glowing thing.

"_Lestrade_." He said as soon as he picked up the call.

"Sir, he entered my house, put woolen yarns all over it and there's a furry glowing thing running around."

"_He, whom?_" Lestrade was clearly too sleepy to even rationalize a thought.

"Sherlock, who else?" Donovan yelped as the furry thing ran by her. "Somebody needs to talk with him. Two days ago he pulled a prank you, and now it's on me."

"_I'll call John and tell him to have a talk with him. Now relax, will you, Sally?_"

"There's a glowing thing running around in my flat!"

Lestrade came up with a brilliant thought despise his tiredness. "Turn on the lights then."

Donovan walked to the switch to as she said. "Boss?" He mumbled an answer. "Don't hang up. Please." She approached the mysterious creature, stating rather offended, feeling ridicule. "It's a rabbit. A freaking glowing rabbit!"

"_Bluebell_." Lestrade said. "_From the Baskerville's case. Give it back to Sherlock, right away._"

"Why?" She asked in a low voice, dropping the rabbit on the floor. "Is it dangerous in any way?"

"_No, or at least I think not. But just give it to him with a straight face to prove him he didn't win the game._"

"Alright, I will. And thank you, Lestrade, for staying on the line."

"_See you tomorrow, Donovan._"

"You too, boss."

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><p>Sally knocked on the door loudly enough to wake up half the neighborhood. Sherlock opened the door wrapped in the bed sheet and his curled hair was messed. She kept a straight face as Lestrade told her and put the rabbit on his arms.<p>

"It wasn't funny."

He smirked and said closing the door. "Bye-bye."

Arriving to her flat again Donovan had work for almost an hour, getting rid of all the woolen yarns Sherlock had crossed her house with. She swore at him some times while furiously taking off the adhesive tape of the walls.

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><p><strong>There will be a further chapter. Leave a review, please.<strong>


	5. John turns the tables on Sherlock

**This chapter was (partially) also a suggestion. Once I've read it, I immediately knew how to write. **

**Hope you guys enjoy it.**

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><p>John's eyelids batted each time slower, his eyes sticky and red barely holding on open. The warmth of his bed and the extreme tiredness were making his mind drift away to a dreamless night (more like morning dawn by now…) when five strong and loud pounds on the door travel to John's ears. Mary jumped off bed and ran to door while he clenched his teeth and fists, shutting his eyes tightly, hoping that the knocks didn't do any – Victoria stirred in the cot and started whimpering. He took a deep breath and clumsily made his way to his daughter.<p>

"Is he alright?" That's the first thing Anderson mouthed.

"Uh, no," Mary responded looking back at her husband arriving the door with their whimpering daughter in arms, almost sleeping standing up. "John is sleep deprived, if it's not too obviously."

"I didn't mean _him_. Is _he _alright?" Anderson insisted, making his way inside.

"It's a girl, Philip." John mumbled. "And no she's not alright; her teeth are erupting."

"I didn't mean _her_ either. Is _he_ alright?"

"Are you impersonating a parrot?" Mary asked, shutting the door.

Anderson got of his pocket a small paper, very much creased. His hands tremble slightly while he unfolded the paper. "I found this at my door. Don't know how long it has been there." He gave the paper to John as he kept rocking his daughter in his arms. "I've been to the flat, he's not there. When was the last time you spoke with him?"

"It's skip code, Anderson." John said, giving the paper to Mary who was peeking over his shoulder. "He's alright, I guess. I don't know what is wrong with him lately, behaving like a child, playing pranks on people." Anderson didn't appear convinced by John's answer. "He's alright, trust me. I saw him last night and he was fine." The doctor said, patting his shoulder. "Do you need a ride back home?"

Anderson shrugged but then answered. "No, I'll just get going." He slightly bowed as he walked to the door. "I'm sorry for bothering you so early."

"It's okay," Mary said offering a smile, holding the door for him. "it's not like we were sleeping." Once Mary turned around, John was handing her Victoria and started walking to the bedroom. "Where-what are you doing?"

"I'll put on some clothes, take Victoria for a car ride. She loves it."

"Are you going to the flat?" She asked, walking after him.

John turned around while buttoning his shirt. "I have to. Someone needs to talk to him." When he was done dressing up he picked up the baby girl in arms. "Alright, we'll get going and you" He continued after laying a kiss on Mary's head. "get some sleep."

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><p>One of the things that John learnt about paternity is that car rides are the best thing in the world. Put a baby to sleep in minutes, no matter how cranky or ecstatic the child is. When he arrived to Sherlock's flat, Victoria was sleeping like a little angel; her lips slightly pouted with drool running to her chin and her cheeks were really red due to the minor fever she had by now. He carefully removed Victoria out of the carrycot and walked to the flat. He arrived upstairs; Sherlock was sitting in his chair with a smile, truly pleased to see John.<p>

"We need to talk." John promptly spoke, taking a seat across from him. "Pranking Mycroft was nice because he's a jerk. And him retaliating was acceptable too because you're a jerk sometimes too. To Lestrade it was a little less acceptable; to Donovan I couldn't see the point of that, but to Anderson? That was crossing the line, Sherlock. You know he's not alright."

"It said on the note that I was only fooling with him, it's not my fault he can't keep up with the logic." Sherlock explained.

John sighed and leaned back on the chair. "He is not alright and something worst could have happened. Why are doing these things? One month and-"

"Because I'm bored!" Sherlock shouted as he got up, making Victoria awake up again. He squirmed once he realized he had made the infant whimper.

While trotting his legs on an attempt to hush his daughter, John told him. "We've talked about this. Me being married doesn't change anything-"

"But a child does. Is it the lack of sleep that is affecting your mental faculties? How long don't you sleep?"

"Some long hours, but that's not the point."

"How come it's not the point, John? Are you suggesting in bringing in the baby to crime scenes and suspect chases? Look at this happening right now," He said pointing at John's pitiful attempt to silence Victoria. "do you really think we can be what we were before your wife giving birth to _that human crying and drooling thing_?"

"First, _this human crying and drooling thing_ has a name; it's Victoria, you know it. And second, you are her godfather," John got up and put the child in Sherlock's arms. "act like one, just for once."

Sherlock was helpless, holding the child by the armpits, away from himself. When he turned to John, to complain obviously, he found him sitting in his chair again, eyes closed. He wasn't sleeping, not _just_ yet. The man sat on the chair, yelling a silent plea of help. He wiped her mouth as drool became more abundant and immediately the six-months-old girl grabbed his finger and started chewing on it. Silence was the only thing that ruled the flat. Sherlock was perplexed as Victoria bit his index finger, soothing her pain and itchiness.

"What have I done?" He mumbled to himself, puzzled. John let out a silent chuckle that Sherlock confused with a snore.

When Mrs. Hudson made her way upstairs to leave Sherlock his morning cup of tea with milk, she stood by the door, her hand covering her mouth that insisted in being open. John was deep in his sleep, snoring, in his chair, and Sherlock sleeping as well, having his arms tightly wrapped around the baby girl who was peacefully sleeping, rested back on Sherlock's torso.

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><p><strong>There will be at least one more chapter coming soon. If you have more suggestion, let me hear them. <strong>


	6. A godfather knows best

**The parts in italic text are Sherlock's thoughts. Enjoy. ^_^**

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><p>Everyone was gathered, melting over baby Victoria. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, incredulously looking at the scene, avoiding mingling with the visitors, though he didn't really need to try hard to do so.<p>

_God, people behave absurdly odd when with a baby. I mean, why? _

It was Christmas day. Though John and Mary wanted to spend Victoria's first Christmas at their house, they had spent the Eve there and so they showed up at the flat to make Sherlock a little happier. Lestrade and Molly appeared too. Only Lestrade was at a corner, drinking alcoholic eggnogs, looking dejected. Sherlock deduced that he didn't get to spend Christmas with his kids explaining why he was _there_ as well.

Victoria could be queen of 221B by now. Sitting in her dad's chair, all eyes were on her. John jingled his keys in front of Victoria's eyes, attracting her attention. She was babbling, grasping her hands in the air, wanting to grab the keys. Mary wanted to get her attention as well.

"Don't do that," Molly said. "it will confuse her."

_Wrong, Molly. Babies' attention span is rather wide. They can focus on at least ten things at once, but they behave like any human adult, focusing on the one that appeals them the most. _

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson spoke in a high-pitched voice. "isn't she the most adorable thing in the world?"

_God, no! Mrs. Hudson, speaking in the form of an owl isn't exactly the best thing for a child. Babies prefer low-pitched sounds._

That would actually explain the fact that Sherlock's baritone voice captivates Victoria. And the fact that, whenever John's walks the flat and Sherlock is playing the violin, he plays low notes. Admitting it or not, Sherlock developed empathy for his goddaughter.

"Say mamma!" Mary asked in a baby talk tone (begged actually).

"No," John contradicted her, jingling his keys. "say dadda."

"Ma! Ma!" That was all that Victoria mumbled, which was much closer to be 'mamma' than 'dadda'.

But that wasn't a surprise. Victoria babbles by now basic stuff as 'ma' to call for Mary's attention, 'da' for John, 'bo' for the baby bottle or any food and 'ow', pointing her finger to the doors when she wants to go out.

"Pressuring her won't make her speak earlier." Lestrade pointed out.

_Smart observation, actually. Baby talk doesn't help in child's language development, neither does pressure._

"Yeah, but I have money betted on this." Mary explained.

Lestrade's voice climbed up an octave; he was dumbfounded with that thought. "You are betting on which word she'll say first?"

_I don't know why you're so surprised, Lestrade. Mary was a killer for hire and John has a natural attraction for psychopathic people; betting over their child's first word doesn't surprise me. They are as dysfunctional as I am!_

"Tori," John spoke, using the nickname he put on her. "say 'dadda'." He showed her a lollipop, continuing. "Say 'dadda' and _dadda_ will give it to you."

_Now that's a brilliant thought, bribing! Nice one, John._

"John, don't give her sweets. That makes her overactive."

_Wrong, Mary! You are a nurse, you should know that 'sugar makes children hyperactive' is nothing more than a myth._

"Ma. Ma…" Victoria started mumbling more continuously. Her parents were expectant to hear her first real word. "_Murda_."

John turned his head back, very slowly. Sherlock had that scornful full-teeth grin and a victorious expression written all over his face. "Was my child's first word 'murder'?"

Sherlock ignored him completely, focusing on the girl. "Nice one, munchkin." She giggled at her Uncle, clapping her hands.

Everyone laughed; it was actually sweet that Victoria's first word was taught by Sherlock. The only one who didn't think it was _that_ funny was John, but soon he gave up and admitted it had been adorable, if that was the best word to describe it.

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><p><strong>I'm not sure if there will be more chapters, I'll certainly think of something more to add. If you have suggestions, let me hear them. <strong>

**Reviews are always nice. **


	7. (Un) supervised

**This one is a really, really sweet chapter. To help you about their ages, here:**

**Mycroft is 14-years-old, Sherlock is 7 and Winston is 4. **

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><p>Mycroft massaged the forehead, taking a deep breath. Sherlock ran around the house, pretending to be a pirate and Winston pretending to be a superhero. He really hated to be the eldest, having to take care of two pesky kids like his brothers. Comfortably sitting on the couch, leg crossed, he was reading a book, casually lifting his eyes at the two wild boys playing. He couldn't understand his brothers' minds anymore. How could Winston pretend that he was driving a supersonic vehicle? Why was he throwing shots at the empty spaces and seeking cover under or behind anything? How could Sherlock climb on top of the coffee table and swing his toy sword, taking steps back and forth, pretending to kill pirates? Why was he speaking to people that were not standing there?<p>

Sherlock was Pirate Billy, running around with only his underpants, wrapped around on his bed's blanket. On his forehead he tied a necktie, put a patch on the left eye and drew a moustache and goatee with Mummy's eyeliner pencil. Armed with a plastic cutlass sword, he imagined himself slaying other pirates and forcing his captives to walk off the wooden plank extended over the side of his imaginary ship. He had sailed the seven seas, discovered a thousand treasures and looted several ships of his enemy pirates.

Winston was Captain Amazing, wearing his red pyjamas with stars in blue and yellow, barefooted. He used a plastic gun, shooting with disdain at imaginary villains, wearing as a cape Mummy's red skirt. Running from side to side in his fantastic invisible mobile, between that back-and-forth, sometimes he found himself in Mars but always returned to the mother station. He had been to the Moon and had come back, saying it was not that appealing; it was dark and cold, the ground was hard and it was difficult to keep the feet on the surface. At least he was very pragmatic about that.

It didn't actually take long for the two boys' fantasies intertwine; Sherlock was fighting his little brother with his sword, imitating the sound of the blade slicing the air and Winston was rolling over on the floor, mouthing sounds of laser shots. The two put aside their deadly weapons and grabbed two pillows from the couch. They giggled, hitting with each other, and Mycroft gazed them, feeling an outsider. He didn't get to have that when he was a kid. He was seven when Sherlock was born and ten when Winston was brought to the world. When the two little ones were old enough to play with him, he was already too old to play anything.

Books was all he got, and smarter cousins (they were smart simply because they were older than him); Mycroft was the youngest of the family at the time because Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were parents rather late. He had to outsmart his cousins somehow and then he got lonely because he got too smart and they didn't want to play with him. When he hit the age to go to school, he was already ahead every other kid and that just made him being put aside once more.

One of the pillows flew and hit Mycroft in the head. Sherlock and Winston laughed each one for his own reasons. Sherlock laughed because loved to tease his older brother, Winston laughed because he was genuinely amused. It was a surprise to them when Mycroft smiled and threw the pillow back at them. Finding it so odd, Winston tossed the pillow back at him. Mycroft laughed; something even stranger. He grabbed the other two pillows that were on the couch and threw them at his two brothers. Soon it escalated into a pillow fight between the three.

Listening to genuine laughter, their parents, recently arrived home, walked to the living room and firstly were shocked with what their sons had done. The whole room was a complete mess, feathers from a ripped pillow were all over the floor, but they couldn't be, not even a tiny bit angry. The two boys were laughing, and so was Mycroft. That was something that they didn't see every day, or any day before. Neither of the three noticed their parents, heart melted, gazing them. That was something that wouldn't last for much long, so they watched them, keeping quiet and hidden.


	8. John's actually quite smart

**Eight chapters and still going. Thank you for your love!**

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><p>John climbed up the stairs, announcing. "I'm here to collect Victoria."<p>

The girl, upon listening to her father calling, got herself on her feet and walked to him. Sherlock froze.

"John, I'm really sorry." Sherlock said; actually sorrow mirrored in his face. "I didn't…"

The doctor laughed for Sherlock despise, holding his daughter's hand on his. Sherlock was _actually_ sorry and couldn't understand why John was laughing.

_Two hours before_

John showed up at 221B holding Victoria in his arms. Mary waited for her husband in the car and waved her hand at Sherlock when he appeared at the door. Almost as an immediate move, Victoria wanted to go to Sherlock's arms.

"Sherlock," John started. "I know this is our wedding anniversary, but if she walks, you call me, alright?"

The detective obviously made sure to ignore John's needless advice. He simply picked up his niece in arms and told him, after inspecting his attire. "Mary is ovulating; use protection unless you want to conceive another child."

John's face display pure shock. "What?"

"About eight days ago she displayed the typical reactions of a woman on her menstruation cycle. Your attire is fancy and you've put on extra cologne; you are expecting sexual intercourse. Should I attempt to put Victoria to sleep then?"

"Just call me if she walks, alright?" He simply said, walking to the car.

Sherlock sat Victoria on the couch and looked at her, deep thinking. A child of her age should, at least, be able to take some clumsy steps. He was sure that Victoria was smart enough and well developed to do so, why couldn't she?

"Touch your nose." He told her, gesturing what he wanted her to do. She did it easily.

For the next minutes Sherlock tried other things such as touching the lips, the ears, the eyes, the feet. She was doing it with ease; she had great sensorial and motor skills, why couldn't she walk? That thought was upsetting him. He thought of helping her how to give her first steps but soon gave up on the thought. That would have to be John and Mary's task, and they'd want to see themselves their child's first steps, unlike what happened with her first word ever.

Victoria jumped down from the couch and stood on her feet, holding herself steadily. Sherlock stopped just to watch her and then run to pick her up before she walked completely carefree. That had been an accident. An important milestone on her development, but an accident. John might take it offensively because he'd never believe Victoria simply stood up on her feet and walked. He gave him that warning, and Sherlock knows himself that when he's told not to do something, that's exactly what he ends up to do.

For the next two hours, Sherlock rushed to pick her up and walked with her in arms so she wouldn't walk. For once, at least, he'd try to be serious and fulfil John's request. But it was a hard task. Victoria wriggled and kicked in his arms as a way of protest, wanting to be put on the floor. He tried _everything_ he could to keep her distracted, but nothing worked. And neither did she fell asleep. In no time John was back from the dinner, as like what happened two hours before, Mary waited in the car and Victoria was wide awake.

John climbed up the stairs, announcing. "I'm here to collect Victoria."

The girl, upon listening to her father calling, got herself on her feet and walked to him. Sherlock froze.

"John, I'm really sorry." Sherlock said; actually sorrow mirrored in his face. "I didn't…"

The doctor laughed for Sherlock despise, holding his daughter's hand on his. Sherlock was _actually_ sorry and couldn't understand why John was laughing. "She's been walking for the past four days, but as you didn't see her since, you didn't know."

"Why did you do this then?"

"To keep you occupied." He explained. "She loves to walk and I can't even imagine your struggle in keeping up with my request."

Sherlock said completely calm. "I could have easily deduced that she can walk."

"No you couldn't." The other promptly denied.

"Yes, I could." Sherlock insisted, walking closer to them. "And just by simply looking at her shoes." With a defying smirk John picked up his daughter in arms and let him examine her shoes. "Worn out on the toe-cap, outsole…" He stopped; that wasn't right. "brand new."

"I put on her some shoes she used when she crawled. That way the outsoles would be brand new and you'd never deduce that she can walk… You're not upset, are you?" John asked him.

"No. That was brilliant, John." Sherlock's smile grew wider. John had outsmarted him and he didn't mind at all. He knew John was quite smart.

John smiled as well and then spoke. "We should get going now. It's getting late and Victoria needs to go to bed."


	9. Mummy Holmes is just a Mummy

Mothering Sunday. Oh, just another holiday that doesn't appeal to anyone. Well, anyone but every mother in the world, and Mummy Holmes is no exception. That's the day when Mycroft and Sherlock swear to be at their best behaviour and do the best to please Mummy. Obviously that promise only last for a few minutes. It's always the same every year. The two arrive, neat (and that means _no ties, waistcoats, scarves or any coat of any type_) and handsome just like Mummy likes; the two give her the little something they've found convenient to gift her with and then she brings the photo album.

_Every year_ and she still does the same, knowing the reaction it causes on the two of them. Needless to say that she repeats the act year after year because she can never go through all the pages with her two sons. They always start quarrelling and spoil the day. Sherlock even regresses to his children years and claims that Mummy has a lot more embarrassing photos of him than she has of Mycroft, giving his brother the lead to mock him.

This year, the two chose not to care. They'd keep a straight face, sitting on the couch, one at each side of Mummy as she'd happily flip the pages. The first photos of a family album are always the ones when the children are little babies, in the bathtub or sleeping cosily tucked in a blanket. Those are the kinds of photos the brothers avoid to look at; too much _nakedness_ and _cuteness_. Besides, in years before, they've pick on each other about those photos. Then the album moves on to toddler years' shots. The boys are either very tidy and good-looking or a complete mess and full of bruises. Still, no comments came out of _Mikey_ or _Billy_'s mouths.

But no family album goes on without the school years photos. They hadn't reached those before. Father Holmes looked at the two, visibly anxious and fearful. Mycroft was the first one to take a discreet peep at the page. He pursed his lips and looked away as Sherlock laid his eyes on him. Would he dare to comment? Of course he would!

"Sherlock's first school play." Mycroft started, much to Sherlock's annoyance. "Wasn't he so _precious_" The word was purposely chosen by Mycroft as he glared his mother with a smirk. "as Grumpy?"

"My boy is always precious." She answered with a smile, caressing her son's face as he attempted to dodge the love display.

Sherlock was sat one of the stage's steps with a _very much_ amused expression in his face, quite matching his character's one. He wore a fake red big nose and a long white beard. The brownish hat in his head covered his curled hair, and Daddy's red shirt was long enough to cover him down to his knees. A black belt held the shirt's fabric around his waist and on his feet he wore brown shoes. He'd be pleased with the wardrobe if he wasn't wearing tights. It wasn't enough to have been pointed out to play that character because all of his classmates thought he was very much alike Grumpy? Did he really have to be the class' laughingstock because of the tights?

Sherlock couldn't wait for his revenge. Tapping his finger over the next photo, he commented. "Look at chubby Mikey," Mycroft nearly gave himself a torticollis from turning his head so slowly and stiffly at Sherlock. "so happy with his chocolates." He then chuckled. "Do you remember that he had severe cases of "sleepwalking" but all his trips always ended up at the fridge?"

"I _had_ sleepwalking problems." Mycroft snarled.

Father Holmes shared a chuckled with his youngest son, claiming. "He'd keep sweets hidden all over the house. I'd find sweets and wrappings in the back of the sofa."

"Now why won't you go looking there when you lose your glasses?" His wife retorted, defending her oldest son. "Mikey is not and never was fat." Mycroft couldn't help but to have a small victory smile on his lips.

"Ah," Mycroft interjected upon seeing another photograph. "_Billy_'s ninth anniversary gift; he never really managed to solve it."

"What is the purpose of twisting a worthless plastic cube just to match six colours?" Sherlock answered back, completely relaxed. What was the point really of solving a Rubik's Cube? He could never do it, so what? Was he supposed to be able to possess all possible abilities existent in the world?

Mycroft was the object of Sherlock's mockery on the next photograph. He was about eleven-years-old at that time. He had a thick head of brown hair, greasy due to the overuse of hair product. That was how Aunt Helen loved her nephew; sticky but perfectly combed haired, wearing shorts, a plain white shirt and braces. Sitting on the lap of his extremely round Aunt, he had a nauseating expression on his face, forcing a smile for the photo as he held in his hand a small envelope. Maybe the reason for his face was the fact that the hair product was intoxicating him. Or maybe the clothes were too tight. Perhaps even because he really disliked Aunt Helen. Well, that one was one of the reasons. The other reason was because that envelope had money in it and it was supposed to be part of his gift for Aunt Helen and he really hated envelopes that required him to lick. Nowadays it's Anthea who does that for him when the envelopes are too primitive and need saliva to be sealed. But in that day, there was no Anthea and certainly no Sherlock willing to lick the envelope for him. Mummy was getting angry because Helen was arriving and he still had it open. Not even the poor Redbeard stuck out its tongue to aid the boy. That was why he was so disgusted looking in the photo; he had just lick the envelope minutes ago and that taste was still lingering in his mouth.

"From this day on Mycroft developed irrational anger towards envelopes that require him to lick." Sherlock said.

"Oh, remember when you hit puberty and your voice broke in middle solo?" Mycroft responded, seeing the photo of his fifteen-year-old brother in the choir uniform. "From that day on Sherlock developed irrational anger when asked to sing."

"Who would want me to sing?"

"People who never appreciated your violin screeching!" Giving it a thought, Mycroft mended. "Perhaps being quiet every once in a while would be more useful."

The two started arguing as they rose from the couch and walked to the backyard. Father Holmes got up as well, and caressing his wife's arm he said. "At least they lasted more today."

Both Mycroft and Sherlock were startled and quickly hid the cigarette behind their backs, but let out a relieved sigh as they realized it was their father. Offering him a cigarette, the three were smoking in the backyard. Their mother, still in the living room ran her fingers over one particular photo. She, better than anyone, knows that Mycroft and Sherlock start quarrelling when they see a photo of Winston, their brother. They don't want their Mummy to suffer even more; all they did tell her was that he was missing and that they never got news from him ever since, which was actually true.

Although, Mummy Holmes is allowed to have one little secret of her own too. While her sons and her husband are smoking in the backyard, a slender man figure walked in the living room. She looked back and smiled.

"_Georgie_!"

Winston is supposed to be hidden but when it comes to Mother's Day, he shows up for a brief moment. The two hugged with much affection; you see, Winston is more like Father Holmes. He's smart too but allows himself to be more sentimentalist.

"Have they bickered everything already?"

Mummy Holmes chuckled, caressing her son's face. "They are in the backyard, having a smoke with your father."

"I just came by to give you a hug but today I left a little something for the two crying babies!"

"You may be the youngest but you are the mature one." She said on a laugh.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Mummy."

A little after he left the house as quick and discreetly as he entered. When the three men were making their way inside, Mycroft and Sherlock stopped by the door as their father continued to walk in. Over the kitchen table were a chocolate bar and Rubik's Cube.

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><p><strong>I'm open to suggestions and I love reviews. Either one you'd give to give me...<strong>


	10. Grown up men throwing tantrums

**I'd like to thank ObservationofTrifles for the wonderful reviews. I can't because you have the PM feature turned off. **

**A big thank you for my other readers who appear to be shier and don't tend to leave reviews.**

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><p>The atmosphere was tense, not even a single breath was to be heard more soundly. Sherlock and Lestrade were sitting in the chairs, facing each other. Mycroft supported his weight on the umbrella and John had his arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene.<p>

"Alright," The doctor began. "this is getting ridiculous."

"This is far from being ridicule." Mycroft said. "Brother dear needs to learn some things."

Sherlock turned his head at Mycroft; his deep baritone voice coming out like a roar. "I'm not the only one to blame on this."

"Yes, true," Mycroft added. "but now behave like a grown up man and grow a pair."

John frowned and looked at Mycroft; those were not the kind of words he ever imagined coming out of that so composed man's mouth.

"I can search this whole flat and find _her_." Lestrade threatened. "I choose not to; you'll give _her_ back to me."

This all situation began no more than an hour before, and Mycroft and John had been staring the two detectives for the past quarter of an hour.

Now that Victoria was staying with Mrs. Hudson (who promptly accepted to be her nanny until she'd hit the required age to be enrolled on nursery school) and Mary was back on the work, John was freer to restart crime solving with Sherlock. Lestrade happened to have a particular bizarre and interesting case between hands, and this one he'd not let Sherlock intervene. The DI wanted to solve it himself, as he said to Sherlock. Obviously that was an answer that didn't plea the consulting detective. He tried to play the same trick of having no-one selling him coffee or doughnuts, but Lestrade didn't fell for it this time and resigned himself to drinking the crappy coffee at the police station. As his plan failed, Sherlock sneaked into Lestrade's house he abducted his so precious _Abbey_.

Who is _Abbey_ you wonder? _Abbey_ is Lestrade much esteemed Gibson J-160E guitar, the one he bought early in his life. He worked a lot to earn the money to buy it; 628 pounds he claims it cost him. Still, _Rocky_, his Fender Esquire, also bought in his teen years, wasn't that much cheaper, 507 pounds was marked on the price tag young Gregory rip off the guitar once he purchased it.

Once Sherlock arrived at the flat carrying a black hard shell case, John found it strange; Sherlock was up to something. Opening the case, Sherlock picked it up by the neck he looked at the guitar, much esteemed but with a few (minor) scratches on the body. The centre of guitar's body was sunburst coloured; its lighter colour gradually darkening towards the edges before hitting the dark rim. The tuning pegs were a bit slack due to the much use. The strings were new, recently changed, and the guitar's body, dust-free, shined because of the use of a good polishing product. Lestrade had a great appreciation for the guitar, no doubt. He strummed the six strings with his thumb, the guitar let out six perfectly tuned notes; Lestrade had played with it recently.

Of course Sherlock's break-in was immediately reported to the police. Lestrade's neighbours, knowing that he is a Scotland Yard detective, phoned him. The man rushed home only to find everything in its exact same place, even his breakfast mug in the sink to be rinsed later. The only thing really missing was _Abbey_. Why a guitar? And why _Abbey_ and not _Rocky_? Or both? It didn't take Lestrade too long to realize that that was Sherlock's doing. _Rocky_ is scratched and not so well treated as _Abbey_, all result of his teenage years spent playing in pubs. Following Sherlock's logics of deduction, he realized why he took _Abbey_; more decently treated meant more attachment. Still, that wasn't a good logic of thought because Lestrade loves dearly both his guitars.

But would Lestrade let Sherlock 'kidnap' one of his so precious guitars and not do anything? Of course not! First of all he whined to Mycroft about Sherlock and then broke into his flat and stole his Stradivarius. He was not going to let him in on the case, so that way they were even. Who would say that Sherlock was particularly picky about people holding his violin? Well, too bad, Lestrade thought, so he was picky about people holding his guitars. And so neither of them was going to give up, staring each other for the past hour. John found the situation concerning after witnessing five minutes of their tenacity, and Mycroft, who has eyes everywhere, texted his brother to return Lestrade's guitar. Sherlock didn't care about the request, as usual; Lestrade wasn't the only one being coerced. The big brother showed up on the flat and so far, no progress. Lestrade wouldn't hand Sherlock his violin until he'd give him _Abbey_.

"You do know all three of you are acting like five-year-olds?" John commented. Being a father has given him a much clearer insight of child's behaviour, and those three displayed the exact reaction of two sulky kids and a bossy boy.

"Do you happen to have a brilliant resolution for this problem, John?"

"Actually yes." He spoke, walking to Sherlock's bedroom. "How about you stop acting like a sulky child, a drama queen and a cocky kid?" The three men took offence on John's comment, but the doctor couldn't care any less. Picking up the guitar case he gave it to Lestrade and told him. "Now bring back the violin."

Lestrade answered after tightening the grip on the guitar case. "I don't have it."

The DI was followed to the door by Mycroft. "Like I said," As he swirled his umbrella, he derisively said. "brother dear needs to learn some things."

"Mycroft, give me my violin!" Sherlock yelled at him from the top of the stairs.

Looking up at Sherlock, he said. "I will once you behave."

Sherlock was annoyed and returned to the room upstairs. He didn't have a case and he didn't have his violin.

"Argh, God," He growled. "I'm bored!"

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><p><strong>I accept reviews, suggestions and those two guitars I've mentioned in the chapter. If anyone wants to be generous, I'll be happy to give you my address so you can send them to me! xD<strong>


	11. Three can fool John

**I've been wanting to post a new chapter here but I've been busy. Finally I could write it down and post it. Hope you enjoy. **

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><p>John had left for grocery shopping. It was main task (as it always had been) now that he was back at living at 221B. After Mary's death, he and Victoria moved to Baker Street and they have been having a quite harmonious-tumultuous life in the flat. Mostly things sail smoothly according to the wind that blows. Victoria, or munchkin as Sherlock insisted in calling her, (because she's a lot smaller and lighter than a normal child of her age) was now four of age and going to nursery school. Whenever John or Sherlock couldn't collect her, Mrs. Hudson would go, and she looks after her whenever John and Sherlock are out solving cases. As I said, life went smoothly and as normal as it could be expected.<p>

"Uncle Sherlock?" The sing-song sweet young voice of Victoria reached Sherlock's ears. The look on his eyes was inquisitive as he saw Victoria walking to him. She climbed on top of his legs and snuggled up on his lap. "Why do I have to go to school?"

"That's something you have to ask your father."

"I did already!" She said. "He said I have to go because I have to."

"Well, if he says so, he's probably right." Sherlock simply told her. He had stopped, as John said, filling Victoria's head with 'toxic ideas of rebellion against the natural order of the world'. If John's the father, he knows what's better for his daughter.

"But people go to school to learn, right?"

"Yes."

"Did you learn anything in nursery school?" Sherlock chose not to answer. His personal experiences about school were the 'toxic ideas' that John prefers that Sherlock keeps to himself. "I'm only four," She claimed. "what can I learn there?"

"If your father says you have to go, you have to go."

"Can't you help me faking being sick?"

"No."

"Please." She begged, looking into his eyes as he avoided eye contact. "Just for tomorrow."

"There are three reasons why children don't want to school. Number one, when they hit their teen years and want to skip classes, clearly not your case. Number two, when they are genius children and feel everything is utterly boring, again, not your case. And third, when they are bullied. Who bullies you, munchkin?"

"No-one." She said. Feeling Sherlock gaze intensifying over her, she continued. "It's just Ms. Langford who is always asking about you. She says she really likes you."

"Uhm," Sherlock hummed. "well, then I'll have a talk with your teacher and ask her to stop bugging you, alright?"

Victoria nodded her head and asked. "But can I at least stay at home tomorrow? I wanna stay with Mrs. Hudson, eating biscuits and watching telly."

Sherlock smirked, recalling his many successful feigned illnesses. Letting Victoria skip a day of nursery wouldn't hurt. Besides, she seemed legitimately tired of her Sherlock-obsessed teacher. "All you have to do is to pretend to be tired tomorrow morning and come to me. I take care of the rest."

Victoria sketched a full-teeth grin, telling him. "You're the best, Uncle Sherlock."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, now" He lifted up Victoria and put her on her feet on the floor. "go do stuff. I'm busy."

"Can I help you picking a case for you and Daddy?" She asked him, attempting to carry John's laptop.

"You better choose a good one this time."

When John arrived carrying the groceries, he saw Sherlock sitting in his chair with the laptop over his legs and Victoria fitted on his lap; the two looking avidly at the screen. Sherlock was reading the cases to her so she'd choose one.

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><p>"Victoria Elizabeth Watson," John spoke starting to get impatient. He never calls her Victoria (mostly he uses Tori) and let alone her full name unless he's reaching the edge. "get out of bed, we're gonna be late." Playing according to what was planned in the day before Victoria dragged herself out of bed and slowly walked to find Sherlock. "Where are you going?" John asked her, holding her clothing as she left the bedroom.<p>

Sherlock was putting on his scarf and coat when he felt something tugging his trousers' leg. Looking down he found the little girl with a completely defeated look on her face, gloomily rubbing her eyes. Sherlock had to tip his hat off at Victoria; she could quite well fake being sick.

After looking here and there in the smallest of the places Victoria could have hidden herself, John finally stopped seeing Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room, having Victoria balled up on his arms. "I believe she is sick."

John's frown soothed as he turned overly concerned. "Come here," He tried to take her of Sherlock's arms, but she buried her face in her Uncle's chest. "let Daddy see how you are. Where does it hurt?"

"My tummy," She mumbled against Sherlock's shirt. "and my head."

"It's the flu, John. It'll be better if she stays at home; she might develop fever or get worse."

Sighing, John said. "I'll talk with Mrs. Hudson." As he was by the door, ready to go downstairs, he asked Sherlock. "Can you put her to bed, please?"

"Shh," Sherlock ordered as Victoria wanted to start giggling. "you're good at this, don't blow it now."

Mrs. Hudson accompanied John to the girl's bedroom upstairs. Sherlock covered her up to her neck and she feigned a very convincing coughing attack once she saw her father and the landlady. Seeing the complicit glance exchange between Victoria and Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson promptly recognized the girl wasn't sick. Only John, who as a father, was concerned and didn't notice any of that.

"Maybe I shouldn't go today-"

"That's silly." Mrs. Hudson told John. "You can go, I watch the little girl." She said as she pushed him out of the door.

"Let's get going, John," Sherlock helped, placing his hand on his back and forcing him to walk out the door. "Mrs. Hudson will take good care of munchkin."

"Mrs. Hudson?" Victoria asked in a very frail and low voice. "Can I have some of your chocolate biscuits to make me feel better?"

The old woman laughed and said. "Let's get you dressed. I know you're not sick."

Victoria jumped off bed, giggling. "Daddy is a doctor and I tricked him."

"Before being a doctor, your father is your father. He will always believe in you, love."


	12. Surprise! (Literally a surprise…)

**This isn't one of the best chapters I've wrote, but I had to use this prompt and the idea naturally flown. **

_The murder mystery party was quite enjoyable; that is, until the lights turned on. We were shocked to find her really, truly dead._ **[Sent by **Aeternus . Flamma**]**

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><p>I must say I do not understand why people insist on celebrating birthdays. What is the point of celebrating the fact that we turn a year older? And then there's always that one person that comes up and offers a balloon. I mean, balloons are so weird. "Happy birthday, here's a plastic sack of my breath." It confuses my brain. But John insisted we should come. It was Gre…Gra…Ga… I give up, really! It was Lestrade's birthday. Apparently it is a big milestone to reach the fiftieth anniversary.<p>

His friends and colleagues from the police station were throwing him a surprise party. The idea was pretty well conceived, I must say: murder mystery party. For days they had been sending Lestrade these weird messages, indicating that there might be a murderer warning him about his victim. Lestrade came to me with those notes, and if at first I started aiding him, it didn't last for long. In that same day John told me that it was all a play and that I should play along.

"Can I stand up?" I whispered at John. "The-"

"No, stay down," He said, placing the hands on my shoulders and made me duck again. "we have to wait for Greg to come."

"This is ridiculous." I mumble. "I have something important to show you, John!"

"Shh!" He hissed. I wanted to show him something important but John made sure to ignore me.

Lestrade's friends got this small pub he so likes to come as the place to throw him the surprise party. The owner agreed that they could the place for the night as long as everyone would buy from him the drinks. No problem, apparently. And as it seemed I was the only that had noticed that the woman that was supposed to play dead was far too committed to her role. No-one hadn't realized she was dead!

"Surprise!" They all shouted as they got up and someone turned on the lights again. I was the only one who stood up two seconds later and could be compared to the musician who finishes after the conductor's cue.

The look on his face was genuine and softened. He seemed upset for not having an answer to the murderer case but once he entered the pub, he started giving hugs to everyone. There wasn't a single person in there who didn't wish him 'happy birthday'. Well, I did not certainly as I walked to the blonde woman lying on the floor. His friends were still explaining him all about the notes he had been receiving and how they were fake. Actually, not so fake.

"Get up, Clarisse," One of them shouted. "Greg knows it's a prank already."

"I'm afraid Clarisse won't be getting up anymore," I began. "she's dead."

The murder mystery party was quite enjoyable; that is, until the lights turned on. We were shocked to find her really, truly dead. Well, everyone was shocked to find her really, truly dead; I wasn't. John rushed to check on her pulse and affirmed. "She's dead indeed."

"Oh bloody hell!" Lestrade shouted. "This was not a fake."

"No-one leaves this pub," I announced. "the killer is in here."

"I got my cuffs," Lestrade told me as he drank a shot of vodka. "do your thing, Sherlock."

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><p><strong>Next chapter I'll make it up to you. It is about Mycroft poetry talent during school years, an ode about pastries and blackmailing from a Holmes boy.<strong>


	13. Devilish sweet requests

**Writing the ode was easy, finding a way to put it in the story was harder. But I came up with an idea. Hope you enjoy it.**

**This is narrated as Winston Holmes, the third brother I picture to be, who looks like Tom Hiddleston.**

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><p>Slipping a note into 221B would be easy, getting Sherlock's attention, not so much. I couldn't go to the flat and risk having John Watson seeing me there. I'd need to create a diversion, so that I'd attract his attention and I'd get a place to meet with him. Sherlock only meets up in places he feels absolutely safe, unless of course the case is intriguing enough and then he gets out of his comfort zone. Me, I'm not in the position to attract enough his attention in order to manipulate the place of our meeting, so he'd have to let him choose it. Then, I could turn my thoughts to Mycroft. Sending him a message and manipulating the meeting place is something rather easy as he is a MI-6 agent and will go everywhere the circumstances force him to.<p>

I can see Sherlock walking closer and closer to me. I've been acting on this plan for a couple of days already. I know that now I can get his full attention because this will be our third "accidental" meeting. First time, I disguised as a beggar on the street and asked for a coin, grabbing his leg, but always keeping my head low. His loyal doctor companion ended up giving me a pound. Second time, I pretended to be an Evangelic pastor and kept on insisting to stroll next to him. I faked my voice and accent so that he wouldn't recognize me. Now it's the third time. Two times is a coincidence; three times is a pattern. That was the only way I could get Sherlock's attention without giving on my identity.

"Mister, Mister," I speak, voice disguised very poorly I must admit. "would you be interested in buying a wristwatch?"

"No, back off-"

I cut him off his speech by grabbing his arm. "I want to be part of your network."

Sherlock inspects me, as I do my best to hide my face. "I've seen you before. The beggar, the Evangelic pastor," Taking a small breath, he continued. "Speedy's café in one hour."

I smirk as he walks away. It worked. Now Mycroft…

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><p>"Sir," Anthea says, walking into her boss' office. "a letter has arrived for you. No return address."<p>

Stretching his hand without even lifting up his look, Mycroft tells her. "Give it to me and then leave."

After having the envelope on his hand and hearing the door closing, Mycroft examines the mysterious envelope. He smells it and makes sure there's nothing harmful about it. Ripping it open, he finds a single paper sheet that he reads.

_Remember 5__th__ grade and those useless poems everyone would have to write? I remember yours, chubby Mikey. An ode to fairy cakes…_

_Nanny bakes fairy cakes,_

_Grab them before my brother all takes._

_Oh, sweet pastry_

_your chocolate fluffy batter_

_is something that my weight hates._

_Rainbow sprinkles colour your top_

_and my diet turns into a flop._

_Dances on my tongue the chocolate buttercream,_

_Oh why, fairy cake, did you have to be so mean?_

_Uhm, your mouth-watering smell_

_For you, small pastry, I instantly fell._

_There you go, happy now?_

_A pound I've gained, you've met your goal, take the bow!_

_Want a fairy cake? Meet with me at Speedy's café in an hour._

Intrigued by the content of the letter Mycroft presumed it may have come from Sherlock. He wondered why his brother would have given himself that much of trouble to get a meeting with him, but he knew he couldn't question his brother. He'd always be a world apart everyone else's, so he'd never go by the book.

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><p>Should I be surprised that my two brothers are quarrelling? Of course not; this is common practice, has always been. I can count with the fingers of only one hand the times the three of us were in harmony. We are brothers and we are little boys trapped inside big men's bodies.<p>

"Take a seat, Mikey," I voice as I seat in front of Sherlock and Mycroft is just standing there with that omnipresent umbrella of his.

"Oh, of course," He growls as he looks at my face. His brows frown, his forehead wrinkles and he puts on a scornful smile. "thank you for gracing us with your presence."

"Still as heart-warming as I remember." I joke back.

Mycroft smiles clearly unpleased and takes a seat next to Sherlock. "Will you two take your chitchat somewhere else? I'm here on business."

"I was the one, you idiot!" I tell Sherlock. "Getting pretty slow, Sherley."

"He has always been slow." Mikey insists on poking fun of Sherlock. "Anyhow, what are doing here?"

"I want to get back in the game. I've accomplished my mission and I believe I have the right to resurrected and for that I'll need-"

"Resurrect…" Sherlock scoffs.

"Yes, I do believe I have my rights in wanting to do, don't I?" I vaguely suggest. "I've been dead for over two years; I think I have a special privilege."

Sherlock leans forward over the table and says. "I faked my death because of necessity."

"Right, and I faked my death for fun?"

"Why am I doing here exactly?" Mycroft grumbles.

I raise my hand and call the waiter. "Get my brother a fairy cake. He gets a little cranky when he's sugar deprived." As the woman walks away, I continue. "As I was saying…" I carry on telling them about my plan.


	14. The last biscuit disappeared

**Sorry it took me a little longer. Here's the new chapter.**

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><p>Victoria arrived from school and very carelessly dropped her schoolbag on the floor. Her attention turned to the dish she had left over the table. Mrs. Hudson had baked her some biscuits the day before and she left one to eat after she'd come home from school.<p>

"Mrs. Hudson," Victoria started quietly, looking at the empty dish. "where is my last biscuit? I left it here this morning."

The landlady shrugged. "Perhaps you ate it and don't remember it."

Victoria took offence on that and grabbed a pencil and a notepad as the old woman made her way downstairs.

_The case of the last biscuit's disappearance_

"_A biscuit disappears from a dish in rather unexplainable circumstances."_

_Evidence found: crumbles and a button_

_Suspect number 1: Mrs. Hudson_

_Motive: not quite sure_

With little hops, Victoria walked down to the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson, what did you do this morning?"

"I went grocery shopping and then I did some exercise before cooking lunch. You know, I have to exercise my hip every now and then. After lunch, I had tea with Rosalie from across the street. Oh, her grandson is just lovely and-"

"Skip the details, what did you do next?"

"I picked you up at school, like your father asked me. Why does it matter, dear?"

After scribbling something some things on the notepad, Victoria said. "It may be crucial to know if you are guilty or not."

The woman didn't have time to question what she meant by that because she was already climbing up the stairs.

_Motive: may have grown tired of baking me biscuits._

Victoria was focused on her homework when Mrs. Hudson came by. "Do you want me to bake you another batch of biscuits?" She knows how much the girl loves her biscuits.

Before answering, she grabbed the notepad and added. _Motive: may have grown tired of baking me biscuits. Unlikely scenario. Suspect exonerated. _"Can I help you?"

"Well, of course," The lady said, caressing her hair. "just finish your homework first."

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><p>John frowned at what he saw. Victoria was sitting on Sherlock's chair, with a small notepad on her lap and a pencil in her hand. Over the table, an empty dish with some crumbles only and a paper placed on the edge of the table saying "Crime scene, do not touch". He then smiled upon reading that and as he laid his eyes on his daughter again, the smile disappeared due to the straight face the girl was pulling.<p>

"What is going on?"

"Glad that you arrived," she said. "take a seat." Victoria pointed to the chair in front and then flipped some pages of the notepad and started writing.

_Suspect number 2: John Watson_

_Motive: he is my daddy and says that I shouldn't eat too many biscuits._

"What would your interest be in eating the last biscuit that was on that" She pointed with the pencil. "dish this morning?"

"So this is what this is about?"

"I've asked you a simple question," Victoria remained with a blank face. "I expect you to answer it."

"No, I didn't eat the biscuit. As a matter of fact, I didn't even see it."

"Where were you this morning?"

John smiled as he crossed his leg. "Working."

"At what time did you leave?"

"Uhm," The doctor's fingers tapped the armrest of the chair. "around 8:45?"

"Uh-uhm…" Victoria mumbled, adding to the paper. _Alibi: left to work around 8:45, before the disappearance of the biscuit_. "Alright, thank you."

"Do you have any more suspects?" John inquired curious.

"Yes, I do," The two looked at the door as Sherlock entered. "and one of them has just arrived."

_Suspect number 3: Sherlock Holmes_

_Motive: Hunger._

_Proof against him: a shirt button found near the crime area._

"Was it you?" Victoria immediately dropped on Sherlock.

"Was it me what?" He replied confused.

"The one who ate my last biscuit?"

Sherlock walked to her and grabbed her, putting her on her own feet so he could sit on his chair. "I take no interest on biscuits, let alone food itself."

_Alibi: left to work around 8:45, before the disappearance of the biscuit_. _Doesn't take interest on food. _After taking her notes, she slipped her hand into her pants' pocket and showed him the small button on the palm of her hand. "Then how do you explain this?"

"That button isn't mine."

When Sherlock gave her that answer, she frowned. "So, it doesn't seem likely that a button fell from you shirt while you ate my last biscuit? You wear overly small shirts and all the buttons seem to be bursting the seams."

"You can check all my shirts. It's not mine. It seems costum made, part of a tailored-suit."

Victoria's eyes widened and she started running downstairs, already calling at the top of her lungs. "Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh dear." The woman sighed. Now it was Victoria calling her like that too, not just Sherlock. When those two get excited, they get excited big time. "Was anyone else at the flat this morning?" The little one asked, arrived at the kitchen downstairs.

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson put the dish cloth on the counter and started walking upstairs. "Sherlock's brother was here and wanted to speak with him. I was forgetting to tell him about it."

"Chubby idiot," Victoria puffed walking after Mrs. Hudson. "hope he gets chocked next time he decides to eat one of my biscuits." Looking at Sherlock, she told him. "You're off the hook, Uncle Sherlock," she then turned her eyes to her father. "and you too daddy."

Mrs. Hudson told Sherlock the message and then ran downstairs to take the batch of biscuits of the oven.

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><p>After a while, Mrs. Hudson came with a dish full of biscuits and a glass of milk. Victoria jumped to her father's lap and started having the snack.<p>

"Can I have one?" John asked.

Victoria giggled. "Just one, daddy." She put a biscuit in his mouth, telling him. "I helped Mrs. Hudson making these."

"Uhm," John hummed. "they taste good. No wonder why Mycroft ate one."

"He just ate one because he can't control himself and he's heartless enough to eat a child's last biscuit." Sherlock explained, taking a biscuit too.

"Uncle Sherlock!" Victoria whined, pretending to be upset. John smiled and was surprised; Sherlock eats very little, so that was a major step.

"What? It wasn't your last biscuit."

_Mycroft Holmes found guilty._

_Case closed._


	15. On your left…

**I actually thought really hard if or not to post this. I ended thinking it'd be worth it. This is what happens a week after watching Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Hope you guys enjoy it.**

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><p>Puffing, Lestrade was bent down, holding to tightly to a fence, head lowered, trying to recover his breath. For the past week, someone wearing a hoodie would come running past him and yell "on your left!". When Lestrade would raise his head, he'd only see the same man already turning the corner. He couldn't tell who the person was, maybe because his eyes were all glassy, his ears buzzing and he'd be busy trying to recover his breath. All that Lestrade knows is that the man wears a hoodie to hide his head. Apart from that, he has no clue about who the person is.<p>

So, that day, Lestrade pretended he was taking a rest. It had been over a week and he didn't enjoy that prank anymore. He smirked slightly when he listen to the man's steps coming closer and closer.

"On your-"

The man didn't finish the sentence, being pushed against the lamp post. Lestrade had his fist closed and the other hand strongly holding the man by the collar of his sweater. "On your face if you…" Lestrade let go of the man and let out a sigh. "Are you for real?"

"You are neglecting your work out, Gregory. Getting tired far too often."

"Really?" He spoke again, hands on his waist and head thrown back as he was taking a deep breath.

"Give me some water." Mycroft asked between breaths.

"No." Lestrade scoffed as he grabbed his bottle. "Go down on your knees."

"No." The other one grumbled. Kneeling just to get a drop of water? Mycroft Holmes would rather die of thirst...

Not quite putting the bottleneck against his lips, he let on to Mycroft the water dripping into his mouth, making the other one swallow in dry, imagining that water sliding down his throat.

"Alright, alright," Mycroft gave in. "But I'm just going down on _one_ knee."

"On one knee?" The detective started walking. "Are you proposing to me?" Mycroft rolled his eyes and walked after him. Lestrade stretched back his arm and offered him the water bottle.

"I challenge you for a full mile," Mycroft said, taking a while to drink the water. "non-stop running."

"It's a bet," Lestrade told him, presenting his hand. They sealed their agreement with a handshake. "if I win I get to eat a jelly doughnut in front of you!"

"That's a wrong way to congratulate yourself. Burning calories just so you can ingest some more."

The detective laughed. "You're just saying that because you won't stand me eating the doughnut! Ahead of you!"

"Hey!" Mycroft yelled and started running after Lestrade who was already turning the corner after having mocked him.

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><p><strong>I've said it many times, I love Mycroft and Lestrade and I think they know each other for a long time. And I also like to make them act like two little kids! :) <strong>

**Reviews would be lovely. If you have any ideas, let me know, especially any idea including Molly****.**


	16. You give Tori a bad name

**I was listening to Bon Jovi's You give love a bad name and this chapter came up. It's not great, but it's something giving the fact that I had a bunch of college work to do, I'm surprised I still have inspiration. **

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><p>The expression on Sherlock's face said it all. Molly saw how relieved and utterly happy he was when he opened the door for her. "Thank Goodness you've arrived."<p>

Molly couldn't help but to smile and walk upstairs, keeping her hands wrapped around the strap of her shoulder bag. She could listen to Victoria's cry and she wasn't any near the bedroom. "Where are John and Mrs. Hudson?"

"John is…" Sherlock looked around as if he lost something. "I don't pay attention to non-important things, so I don't know where he is, but he carried a bag with him so I guess he'll take time. Mrs. Hudson, I believe she went shopping. She asked me if I'd be okay with the munchkin and we could have been okay if she kept on sleeping."

Sherlock guided Molly to the bedroom where Victoria was. The eighteen-months-old baby rose up on her crib with tears rushing down her face. "God, Sherlock," Molly said. "the poor girl has a dirty diaper."

The genius shrugged and walked out the bedroom. "I'm not qualified to be put through any tasks."

Molly rolled her eyes and grabbed him by the arm before he could leave. "You're not going anywhere. We'll change her nappy."

Sherlock walked to the crib and picked up his goddaughter in arms, turning his face away because she had a dirty and very smelly diaper. "She's a drooling, crying human creature who eats and excretes on diapers."

"Be a bit nicer," Molly told him, working on grabbing some wet wipes, a clean diaper and cream for the diaper rash she imagined the poor baby would have by now. "she's your goddaughter."

"Does not mean I am capable of handling a diaper change and feeding her."

"Just give it a try," The medical examiner said, offering a smile. "I'm here for you if you need help."

Molly heard the door being open and figured it'd be either John or Mrs. Hudson so she left the room to check who it was.

"Molly, dear" Mrs. Hudson said. "did Sherlock called up for your help?"

"He did," The woman spoke with a smile. "he's changing Victoria's diaper. Where is John? Sherlock said he left with a bag."

"Went to the hospital because of his sister. I don't know any more than that."

Molly's smile faded away once she heard that. "I'll better go and check on Sherlock. I left him alone."

"I put her to sleep," Sherlock whispered with a smile on his face, turning around to face Molly.

The woman grinned looking at Sherlock rocking a small baby in his arms, dressed in a pink bodysuit. She smelled clean again, the pacifier was on her mouth and her breathing was gentle and profound already.

"She's still a drooling, crying human creature who eats and excretes on diapers. And she'll always be munchkin to me." He looked down at the girl, finally he was starting to bond with her.

"Sherlock, you give Tori a bad name."

"I'm sure she'll like it when she grows up."

As it always turns out Sherlock was right. There's no other nickname that Victoria Elizabeth Watson loves more than munchkin.

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><p><strong>I promise to come up with something better next time. Suggestions are nice as always.<strong>


	17. Superman

**I loved writing this chapter and I do hope you enjoy it as much as me.**

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><p>Lestrade was feeling a mix of feelings. He loved having his children at his house, but he only had that privilege two weekends per month. And that day was not the day when he was supposed to have them. His ex-wife asked him to stay with the kids so she could go out to dinner with her now boyfriend PE teacher. It upset Lestrade to no end that he had to be with his kids so his wife could go out with the man she cheated on him with. But he took a deep breath and relaxed.<p>

His oldest child, Maggie, age of sixteen, came from her bedroom with her phone in hands. "Dad, can I go out with Dylan tonight?"

"Have you done your homework?"

"Can I go?" She insisted, hating the fact that her father would always answer her with another question.

"Do your homework and clean up the mess that the bedroom is and then I'll think about it."

The teenager grunted (which was her primary form of communication all due to teenage hormones messing with her) and returned to her bedroom. Lestrade then turned his attention to one of his middle kids, the twelve-year-old Alfie, who was struggling with homework. The two were sitting at the kitchen table with a mathematics book open and the boy had a pencil in his hand and a pensive look on his face, looking at the problems on his notebook. His mind was all set on football and nothing else. He didn't seem to like school and his grades were mainly Cs and Ds, and about maths, it was really a low bottom F. Lestrade tried hard to keep him motivated and apparently using football analogies made him understand things better and keep him captivated.

"I've got my maths' test but I'm not sure if you want to see it. You tried really hard to help me and I feel like I failed you."

"C'mon, champ," Greg encouraged. "if you're feeling that way I'm sure you've worked your best on that test. Let me see it." Alfie reached over to his backpack and showed him the test. C- was written in big red block writing and Lestrade smiled and rubbed his son's hair. "This is perfect, Alfie. Congrats. You just earn yourself a new pair of football boots. And if I'm not busy during weekend, we'll go to the park and play some football."

The boy's eyes glistened and his mouth opened in big excitement. "Thanks, dad. You're the best!"

"Yeah, but now keep up with these grades, alright? And finish your homework," He spoke in a rushed way as he saw the youngest of his kids walking to him.

"Daddy, let me make you pretty!" The four-year-old Ellie said, holding a small flask of hot pink nail polish.

"Alright." The detective answered her, placing his hand over the table as she entertained her carefully painting her father's nails and he continued to help Alfie.

On the couch was his other middle son, Frankie. He was eight-years-old and had a slight form of autism, so he preferred to be alone and quiet most of the time, clinging to his comic books that he avidly devoured, five to ten books during a whole day. Sometimes he was just reading comics he had read already but he couldn't get tired of them.

"Frankie," Lestrade called seeing his son impatient, not knowing what to do. "go to my office room and check on top of the desk next to my paperwork. Dad brought you new comic books."

The boy did so and then came back with a stack of ten new comic books and took his seat on the couch again, reading them. Once Alfie was done with his homework, he took a seat next to his brother and Frankie slightly moved closer to him, leaning his head on his brother's shoulder as the two read the comic books. Taking a look at Ellie, Lestrade realized she was covered in glitter, her face smeared with lipstick and mascara, and that she needed a bath.

"Where did you get all of these?"

"From mummy and Maggie."

"Well, these things costs a lot so don't take them from mum. And ask Maggie if you can borrow something. She gets mad and she's right."

"Al'ight, I'll ask next time. Maggie sometimes does curls on ma hai' and they look good."

"See? If you ask your sister nicely," Lestrade said as he picked up his daughter in arms. "she doesn't mind doing those things to you. You know, your birthday is coming up so dad will give you one of these big sets of make ups and glitter you so like."

On the way to the bathroom, carrying the four-year-old in arms, Lestrade walked by Maggie's bedroom and she was finishing putting her clothes on the wardrobe, where they belonged. "I've finished homework and the room's clean." She claimed.

"Great. Now come and help me bath your sister."

Again another grunt left the teenager's mouth but she strolled after her father. Once the little one was bathed, she asked her big sister to her some braids and the oldest one agreed. Lestrade left to find his two boys playing football with a paper ball on the living room. He made his way to the kitchen and started making dinner for the five of them.

"Look at me, daddy!" Ellie shouted as she ran into the kitchen, showing him her braided hair.

"It looks pretty, sweetheart. Dinner will be ready soon; why don't you go play with your dolls? I might join you in a while."

Ellie left the kitchen with little hops and then Greg saw his teenage daughter standing at the door with her arms crossed over the chest. "Tell Dylan to pick you up at 10."

"Oh my God, dad," Maggie ran to him and back hugged him. "thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you, you're the best."

"Alright, alright, cut off the act. You're just acting like this because I'm letting you go out."

Maggie gave him a tighter hug and told him honestly, "No, I do really love you."

She left her father thinking about that with a smile on his face and walked to her bedroom to prepare her clothes. At ten PM religiously Dylan rang the bell of the Lestrade's house. Maggie ran to open up and Greg walked to the door as well.

"See how my girl is, Dylan?" He warned. "I want her back just like this at 2 AM, top max, hearing me?"

"2 AM?" Maggie said perplex. "When I'm with mom and she lets me go out at night I have to be at home by 11:30, midnight at top best."

"Well, if you do want-"

The teenager cut his speech. "Love you, dad." And then she walked out the door.

Greg then went to find his other three children to tuck them to bed before preparing himself for a bunch of paperwork he had brought from the police station as he'd wait for Maggie to return. Ellie was already sleeping on the floor of the bedroom and he just picked her up and put her to bed. Alfie was coming from the bathroom with his teeth brushed, excited with the fact that he was going to get new football boots and that his father would probably take him to the park during the weekend and the two would play there. Without any order from his father, Alfie got himself to bed. Lestrade helped Frankie with his pyjamas and was happy to see that his son let him help him. But, before climbing up to the bunk he shared with his brother he ran to the living room and brought a drawing he had made. It was a very artistic drawing of a man and a caption that said 'my dad is a superhero'.

Lestrade ducked and asked, "Can dad have a hug?" Frankie wrapped his arms around his neck and gave him a hug. Even though it was brief, it was a display of affection and those were rare coming from him. "I'll put this one on the fridge too."

All kids were in bed and Lestrade walked to the couch and devoted himself to the paperwork. It was 1:30 AM when the keys turned on lock and Lestrade open his eyes to see Maggie walking in home. "Hey," He greeted on a whisper. "before you go to bed, can you take the nail polish of my nails?"

Maggie smiled and pulled him from the couch to her bedroom. He sat on her bed as she looked for a flask of acetone and a cotton ball. "I think you were cleaning this bedroom."

"I didn't know what to wear!" She apologized herself for the amount of clothes scattered all over the floor and bed.

"Did you have fun?"

"I did, yes. Thanks for trusting me."

Lestrade got up and put a kiss on his daughter's head. "Night, Maggie."

"Dad?" She called before he left through the door. He backed a few steps and looked at her. "Mum is great and I love her but she never deserved you as a husband. You are incredible, you work hard and take care of all of us so easily. Mum can't handle us like this, like you do… I just thought you needed to know this."

Lestrade simply smiled and closed the door, "Sweet dreams, little girl."

What Maggie said was right. Lestrade worked hard and he could handle his four children perfectly. Maggie felt comprehended by her father and didn't slam doors or yelled as she did with her mother. Alfie was improving his grades and was getting each day better at football, unlike when he was with his mother, who punished by not taking him to football practices and forcing to study. Frankie could display affection and call Lestrade 'dad', unlike what he did with his mother to whom he could address as 'mom' or even hug her because she'd pressure him too much to show any emotion at all. And Ellie was growing up healthily and felt she was loved because her dad played with her, unlike her mom who only had time for her boyfriend.

Greg Lestrade was a superman: he was a super detective and a super dad.

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><p><strong>Two more chapters are in progress. One of them, I'd like to ask ObservationofTriffles if there's any special The Doors' song you'd like me to use on a future chapter. If not, I'll pick one and write it.<strong>

**Reviews are important and so are suggestions.**


	18. A day in the life

**This idea started as one thing and then it evolved and evolved and got to this chapter. Honestly, one of my favorites so far. A couple of IMPORTANT notes for the chapter:**

**Inspiration from the gif set: fuckyeahteenlock . tumblr post / 68026854630 / thescienceofjohnlock-peteristhetwelfth**

**Characters used: Michael Fassbender as Max Eisenhardt (Fassbender's character on X-men) and James McAvoy as Charles Xavier (McAvoy's character on X-men) and Jeremy Wade Delle (a real schoolboy who shot himself in front of his English class in high school and was the inspiration for Pearl Jam's song). The gif set included Tom Hiddleston, but I'm using him as Winston Holmes, so it'd have to be a no. Besides, these three seemed enough for me.**

**Recommended songs to listen, (used/referred for each character):**

**Title of the chapter - A day in the life (by The Beatles)**

**Jeremy Wade Delle – Jeremy (by Pearl Jam)**

**Charles Xavier – I am the walrus (by The Beatles)**

**Max Eisenhardt – Voodoo Child (by The Jimi Hendrix Experience)**

**Sherlock Holmes – People are strange (by The Doors)**

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><p><em>London, 1997<em>

Sherlock had always questioned why he was wasting time on going to university. Nothing seemed interesting there; everything was far too slow for him. On a rough and tempestuous Winter's morning he got the answer he needed; the stimuli and enthusiasm that 17-year-old Sherlock was lacking about college. 8 in the morning, English class, the professor takes note of those who are present (something that upset Sherlock because that way he couldn't skip classes or else he'd fail the subject just by absences). By the corner of the eye he studied Jeremy Wade Delle, the quiet kid who lately had been acting sad, depressed, completely unhooked of life itself.

"Jeremy Delle?" The professor called out, raising his look over the thick lens of the round glasses placed on the tip of the rumpole nose. His faded-blue eyes looked for Delle.

"Private Jeremy Delle reports to duty, Sir," Delle joked sarcastically, covering his right eye with his hand, the palm facing the lecturer. The man sighed and marked on the sheet his presence. "Professor?" He called, having the man look at him again. "I forgot my English book. Is it possible for me to go and get it?"

"Quickness on your legs, Mr Delle."

As it wasn't his turn to answer for his name yet, Sherlock leaned over to take a look at Jeremy's notebook. All the pages were pencil scratched with gruesome drawings and words marked with pain and anger. His words and statements were beautifully horrific, coming from a crushed, suffering soul. His drawings seemed like a young child's drawing; the figure of a stickman on top of a mountain, his arms raised in a V and a speech bubble saying 'King Jeremy, the wicked. Ruler of his world!' As Sherlock was flipping through the pages he noticed that the notebook was resting over the English book.

"Mr Holmes!" The loud yell of Professor McKellar made Sherlock jump on his seat and stare the man. "Should I write you as 'not present'?"

"Well, you have engaged a conversation with me, so I would say that I am present in this class. Not to mention that if you did take notice that I was in your class, why do I have to be obliged to answer 'present' out loud?"

"I like hearing your voice, Mr Holmes."

"Quite ironic given the fact that you tell me so many times to keep quiet."

"This now would be a great time for you to do so."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out an inaudible grunt and then rested back on his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and the right foot over the other ankle. Jeremy entered and walked to the front of the classroom, announcing. "Professor, I got what I really went for."

He ran his eyes through his all class, focusing on two particular students and then smirked wickedly as if everything he ever aspired in life was going to come true. From the inside of his jacket he pulled of a .357 Magnum revolver and put the barrel of the firearm in his mouth. He pulled the trigger before Professor McKellar or classmates could react. It all happened in three seconds flat. Everyone was in shock and for five straight minutes no one moved except for McKellar who was desperate and went to look for employees to call the police and the EMTs. The classroom of young adult people resembled a kindergarten class, scared after being left alone.

With slow and silent movements, Sherlock got up from his chair and walked down the stairs to meet Jeremy's dead body. He was captivated by the way the blood was making a pool on the floor, the entry and exit wounds seemed curious, even the way his dead body hit and sprawled on the floor was appealing him. The slug was up in the thick ceiling and splatters of blood coloured the classroom's white walls.

Classes were dismissed as soon as the Scotland Yard arrived. Sherlock wanted to stick around. Up until that day he hadn't cracked the mystery of Carl Powers' death. He wanted to stay for this one, but he wasn't allowed to stay, obviously, and he didn't have a way to escape that order as his roommates Charles Xavier and Max Eisenhardt dragged him back to their dorm.

All three of them were younger than the other students of the university and so sharing a dorm together seemed logical. Not to add that all three of them were genius and only themselves understood each other. No one seemed to understand them, or at least didn't even try to. Max and Charles were opposite poles of a magnet. While Charles was clumsy, had the typical geeky look with the big lensed glasses and the hideous Nana's knitted sweaters, Max was the ideal guy for the girls, athlete and intelligent, always walking around shirtless with a cigarette on the corner of the mouth and the messy pillow-styled hair. Besides being all genius, they all lacked one thing: basic human interactions. In their little 'nest' they felt the most comfortable. An argument between them was always a challenging and delicious encounter of ideas and that would never led anywhere, all due to their smartness and stubbornness.

The thing that most people didn't know, or ever imagine, was the shallow and sometimes careless way that the three consumed drugs to hush their thoughts for a while as psychedelic rock music played on the record player. As soon as they entered the dorm, Max kicked off his shoes by the small sunken couch and dropped the needle on the record. _Voodoo Child_ started playing as he looked for paper filter to wrap a joint. His shirt was stripped off immediately after he put the marijuana cigar on the mouth and let his body fall back on the couch. Max barely had time to light up the joint as Charles sat next to him and took it from his mouth, to take a smoke himself.

Charles blew out the smoke and squirmed. "This one's too strong, bloke."

"Don't want it," Sherlock said as he took the cigar from Charles hand and smoke it as well. "don't take it."

It didn't take long for the room to be filled with smoke of their joint and their eyes were red and their mouths were dried. They were high as kites by that time. Charles, every time he smoked, lost complete sense of himself. Sherlock and Max would say that his intelligence assimilates walrus intelligence and he'd go from a physics genius to a babbling and incoherent young man.

"Imagine if it was one of us there," Charles commented as he passed the cigarette to Max.

"Association with the victim is a common after a dramatic event." Sherlock answered him, his head thrown back on the back of the couch.

"What do ya mean?"

Max placed his hand on his shoulder and said, "He means stop being an overthinking pussy."

"But, hey, chaps, think. Think with me," The other two sighed and rolled their eyes. "Imagine if I am he and-and you" Charles pointed at Sherlock, "are he, and you are me and we are all together." His voice was climbing up louder and louder. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die too!" And all of the sudden Charles broke down crying, but still attempting to smoke.

"Nope," Max retorted taking the cigarette from his hand. "you ain't smoking anymore today."

A few minutes went by when the only audible sounds were Charles' sobs and the music still playing. Max took the speech, "Jeremy looked at those two at the back of the classroom."

"Daniel Monroe and Klaus Logan," Sherlock affirmed.

"They bullied him. They knew each other ever since high school." Max then kicked the table in front of them, causing it to tumble and break. "Fuck it, he was a good kid. Tomorrow when I see those two, I'll break their noses."

More time went by and then there was nothing but silence. Well, silence outside Sherlock's mind. Inside, his brain was still struggling to keep thinking. He had several theories but a bigger doubt was haunting him: people's reaction. The ones in his class were shocked, some cried, others couldn't even sketch an emotion, Charles started crying all of the sudden and Max was upset.

Sherlock came to the realization he had had long ago: he didn't understand human behaviour. People are strange. And bit by bit Sherlock's consciousness slipped away too and he was hushed and quiet just like Max and Charles. None of the three could think anymore. However, Sherlock's last thought was that people, starting from that moment on, thought he was a freak. Now they admittedly called him a freak, but it couldn't bother a bit. People are strange.

Jeremy's suicide was the hot topic for the next day at the university. "_The dude pulled out of the gun and shot himself in the head."_, _"That lad from physics class threatened to kill everyone in the classroom but ended up killing himself.", "He fired at least three shots or so. Lots of blood, he was full of holes."_

When people are telling a story, they always change the plot as much as they want it. But, at the end of the day, no one could say his name; he was just _that dude_ or _that lad_. No one really knew that his name was Jeremy Wade Delle. When you die, the world continues spinning and nothing changes really. When you're a nobody no one remembers your name. After all, you're an event in the day of someone's life. That's all you are. A header on the newspaper and a brief day of talking here and there. Nothing else.

"_And then Sherlock was the only one who got close to him. So sick that kid. He has some sort of mental disturb. He seemed almost happy to see the kid dead on the floor. Sherlock is such a freak."_

When you're strange no one remembers your name. But his name they remembered. Sherlock, the freak.

People are strange, Sherlock concludes, as easy as that. People are strange.

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><p><strong>Reviews are always nice. The next chapter takes a much, much lighter tone. In fact, it's one of those fluffly chapters everybody loves. <strong>


	19. Lovely Rita

**I should have said it on the previous chapter, but I have only borrowed McAvoy's and Fassbender's characters names, nothing else. All their characterization was product of my imagination, to give the insight of three different and somehow alike people reacting to the same event.**

**And to answer ObservationofTriffles, I don't brag about things I do (I'm not that kind of person), but if there's something I can say that I have good is music taste! xD**

**One a note for this chapter, Mycroft's full name is made up. And Winston's my character so I do whatever I do with him. In case I haven't mentioned it (I believe I did, but oh well) Winston Holmes in my mind is Tom Hiddlestone.**

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><p>Christmas was always… tragic… for the Holmes'. There was always a problem, a prank, a major disaster that ruined the family's holy celebration. And like if they planned it, each year, one of the three Holmes' would take turn in being the guilty one. There'd have to be a year, though, when there'd be a good surprise.<p>

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><p><em>Christmas 1973<em>

Mycroft was a fourteen-year-old boy, a teenager he liked to be referred as such. Despite the fact that he _always_ really liked to be alone, he, giving his age at the time, was removed from his family's festivity environment, all alone sitting on the interior window sill. Outside it poured rain as the oldest of his brothers and cousins' clan was reading an economics' book.

"She'lock, look!" The four-year-old Winston yelled as he ran to the window where Mycroft was sitting. "It rains!"

Winston's hands were flat open placed against the window glass, like if they were glued there. His eyes were open widely and he was ecstatic about the rain. In no time seven-year-old Sherlock joined him, but not as interested as Winston. Well, at least not interested on the rain falling outside but on Mycroft's book.

"Would the two of you remove yourselves from this division?" Mycroft politely requested, keeping the book against his chest so that Sherlock would be tempted to even take a look at its title. "I was not bothering anyone so I don't expect anyone to bother me either."

"Stupid Mycroft!" Sherlock grunted and grabbed Winston's arm tightly, dragging him out of the small pathway that connected the kitchen to the living room.

Eventually Sherlock ditched Winston with their _boring_ cousins and wanted to find himself something far more interesting to do on his own. Instead, his father asked Sherlock to play with Winston or at least be nearby him because the little boy was still recovering from the flu. Sherlock stomped his foot on the floor, crossed his arms over his chest and pouted, but it didn't cause any different reaction from his father. He was stuck with his little brother. Not even claiming that Mycroft should stay with him because he was the oldest worked on.

Winston was playing with toy cars nearby the fireplace, crawling on the carpeted floor, doing 'vroom' noises all by himself, immersed in his pretend play. The intense fire was keeping Winston's cheeks red coloured and his body temperature was starting to increase again. His laziness and muscular pain were returning and it didn't take any long for the boy to ball up on the floor and stay there, quietly whimpering.

Sherlock put Winston up on his feet by wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him up. He took him to the bathroom and started reading the labels of some medication bottles. He ended up giving him a handful of pills. Result: less than an hour later Winston was being rushed to ER to have a gastric lavage.

_Christmas of 1973: William Sherlock Scott takes the blame_

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><p><em>Christmas 1997<em>

17-year-old Sherlock entered the door coming home from university for the Christmas week. Both his mother and father came to greet him with a hug that he quickly dismissed, being busy stripping off his long jacket that he hung on the coat hanger, and taking off the scarf as well. The only words that exited his lips were, "I'll be in my room."

He climbed up the stairs and as soon as he opened his bedroom's door, he carelessly threw the backpack he brought on the floor. Sherlock let his body fall back over the bed, the mattress going up and down as he let himself fall. His eyes immediately closed while he toed off his shoes, but still he was _too_ awake. A small grunt left his mouth when he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and exposed his bare skin with nicotine patches on his arms. Despite the lifestyle he had at the dorm with his roommates, he wasn't going to show it to his family, so, it meant no smoking for a week. And family here meant mother and father. He couldn't care any less if his fourteen-year-old brother would follow his example. After all, everything that Sherlock did about smoking came from his so mature older brother, now twenty-four.

The discerning ears of the genius immediately heard footsteps outside the door of his bedroom. The door opened, and in a matter of two seconds he knew it wasn't either his father or mother coming in. It wasn't Winston either because he was always loud, even though when he wanted to bother him he was the sneakiest person on the planet. A small box hit Sherlock's chest and it sat there until he opened his eyes to see what it was. A pack of cigarettes.

"Get lost, Mycroft." The teenager groaned, but still appreciating the pack of cigarettes.

"Then say I'm ungrateful," Mycroft spoke harshly. "Merry Christmas, little brother."

"You wouldn't have a lighter, would you?"

Mycroft walked to the door and grumbled, "Don't push on your luck, Sherlock."

"I meant it," Sherlock grumbled back after his brother was already gone. He brought himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. "jerk."

Eventually Sherlock found a lighter and ripped off the nicotine patches, smoking the cigarettes instead. He was on his fourth cigarette, so delightfully mind drifted that he didn't hear the door open. The only thing he heard was his mother's horrified scream.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what are you doing?"

Sherlock jolted when he heard his mother heart pierced voice. Quickly he put out the cigarette and looked at her. His voice came out as a low and painful whisper, being it the one way he could voice anything at the moment. "_Mummy_," he began softly, "I…" He was always ready with a snarky answer on the tip of his tongue and at the moment he was speechless.

"I don't know who your roommates are, but they are not good people, darling. This is not the boy I sent away to university."

Sherlock felt the urge to cry at that moment, but he didn't allow himself to do it. He was worse than his two roommate put together. He was well aware that he had broken his mother's heart and killed part of hers good boy's conception of him. It pained him so bad that the only thing that seemed to do justice for such mistake that he let himself make would be lying.

"Mycroft gave me these just now."

Her look changed. She seemed like a starving lioness who had just acquired a target. Even her tone of voice changed, it was now rough and demanding. One hand rested on her hip, the other hand was stretched out at Sherlock, "Give me those. Now."

Next thing Sherlock heard was his mother furiously walking down the stairs and yelling at Mycroft. And then Winston's mischievous and amused giggles as he was coming up the stairs to his bedroom, obviously laughing at his brother's misery. For the whole week Sherlock stayed at home, Mycroft didn't speak a word at him. He almost didn't even dare to breathe next to him.

_Christmas of 1999: Henry Mycroft Martin takes the blame_

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><p><em>Christmas 2014<em>

Christmas was always… tragic… for the Holmes'. It was a matter of circumstance. There was always a problem, a prank, a major disaster that ruined the family's holy celebration. And like if they planned it, each year, one of the three Holmes' would take turn in being the guilty one. There'd have to be a year, though, when there'd be a good surprise. 2014 was that year. Winston requested that his family would gather for Christmas and the thought of abducting Mycroft crossed his mind in case his older brother's answer would be no.

Winston walked in the house, straight away to the living room, in hopes to find his parents. He did, but they weren't aware of his presence yet. Mycroft and Sherlock immediately noticed their young troublemaker brother.

"Do not have a heart attack, please." Mycroft asked (more like begged) to both his parents.

"I thought you didn't care." Sherlock spoke.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and got up; his parents were confused, of course. And so he announced, "Your troublemaker son has just arrived."

The Holmes looked back and saw Winston standing near the entrance with a bundle of some sort in his arms. A small pink bundle that he carefully unwrapped revealing a baby girl with very few brownish hairs in a full-body pink bodysuit, with tiny gloves on her hands. Winston walked closer to his parents sitting on the couch and knelt before them, revealing the little baby.

"Mum, dad, this is Rita Madeline Mae Holmes. Your granddaughter."

It was his father who held Rita in his arms. His mother was utterly happy and threw herself on a hug to Winston. "I didn't know you had someone, son."

"Well," Winston began explaining, "I don't. Rita just sort of happened. The mother wanted to do an abortion but I convinced her to carry with the pregnancy till the end and that I'd keep the baby."

"Son," His father asked, his eyes put on the baby in his arms, "did you make her sign a document in which she waives her paternal rights? Because I don't want her to show up years later and take _our_ baby away."

"I did, father," Winston said with a smile. "I did. Rita is our little girl and no one will take her away."

Sherlock looked at John and Victoria, his father's simple words still ringing in his head. Once you are in the Holmes' family, you're in for life. No one takes you away and no one hurts you.

_Christmas of 2014: George Winston Wren takes the blame._

_A good blame, though._

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><p><strong>Those who review will be given an electronic cookie! xD<strong>

**Chapter title comes from a Beatles song, but it has no relation other than the use of the name Rita. **


	20. Guess What

**Twentieth chapter had to be special!**

**Take a look the first letter of each paragraph (dialog does not count, meaning if the paragraph starts with inverted commas, do not consider it) and let me know what have you found.**

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><p>Judging by the way he looked like, James appeared to be a normal ten-year-old boy. He appeared so, though. But he was… different. And not the good kind of different. He was the kind of kid that would go to his elderly lady neighbour and ask <em>Mrs Turn, what's black and furry and goes meow – boom!?<em> To which the woman possessed no answer and he promptly answered with a smile _It's your cat in my microwave!_ The woman died of heart attack…

Indeed James was special. One day, a tragedy shook the small town he lived in. There was a car crash, no survivors. A man died along with his three kids, ages of six, four and one. Needless to say that the wife of that man and mother of those little children was heartbroken when the police broke the news to her. James was so special that he decided to approach her one day, when she was gardening, on an attempt to ease down the tragic and still recent events.

"Mrs Langston, may I cheer you up?" It was in this sweet way that he approached her. The woman showed a small smile and nodded slightly with her head. "Knock, knock?"

"Who's there?" She asked him back, as it was supposed to happen.

"It's the police saying your family died!" The woman was shocked by the kid's cruelty when she listened to his answer.

Minutely James prepared his next act. He had witnessed this one and it was deliciously aching him inside; he had to joke about it and savour in Timmy's mother suffering. She had left him buying ice cream while she quickly went back to her house to grab her purse and pay for it. He went back to the Finn's house, finding her exiting the door. _Mrs Finn, do you know why your son Timmy dropped his ice cream?_ The woman smiled; she knew her son was somewhat clumsily. She giggled a little as she asked for the reason. _'Cause he was hit by the ice cream truck!_ James laughed and laughed watching the woman helplessly running to meet her boy's corpse on the floor and the mint ice cream lying on the pavement next to him. His body was already turning as cold as his ice cream.

More pranks the ten-year-old liked to do. One day he allied his love for poetry with the hatred he had for this one neighbour that confiscated his football and his early signs of psychopathic behaviour. _Rose are red, violets are red, _James spoke as he walked by the neighbour shoving his hands inside his jeans' pockets, _everything's red 'cause I threw a burning match into your garden!_ The whole house burnt down before the firefighters arrived.

Oh didn't Louis, his best pal, suffer in his hands. After that one thing James did to him, not only did Louis stopped being his friend but also his mother forbidden him from hanging out with James ever again. Let's see, Jim loved to collect trading cards. So did Louis. But it turned out that the two (as every little kid of their ages) didn't want to give away special cards. Not even to his best pals. It was a matter of pride to finish first the trading cards book. Louis was envious, James was pretentious. James was persuasive but Louis was immune to threats. James asked him what was red and bad for his teeth. Louis didn't know. The only thing he remembered was a brick coming towards his face and then crying with a broken nose and bleeding from the forehead as he was rushed to the ER. He awoke from anaesthesia to find out he had taken stitches to his forehead and that he was blind of his right eye.

Religion was something that James and his family professed; James, his father and mother. They were Christians and they went to church every Sunday, as it was expected. From one Sunday on, the family did not frequent either that church or _any_ other church around. It turned out as the priest was speaking his sermon when he brought up a rhetorical question, to which James decided to answer. _And on the third day He resurrected and shown himself to the Holy Women. And why, why would he shown himself to the women first, before showing to his apostles?_ The priest didn't mind a young child wanting to participate, it bothered him deeply James' jokingly attitude and lack of respect. _Because women have the propensity to gossip and he wanted to make sure that the news of his resurrection was shared with the world._ And so like that the Moriarty's were banned from every church around. And that was the moment his parents started to realize James may not be alright.

It grew deeper and deeper on the boy, the art of causing hurt to others. And it improved. In no time he was no longer a young boy whose behaviour could be somehow forgiven. But it turned out he was always aware of what he was saying and doing since his early days. Mr Jones was a family man who was very domestic. He had moved quite recently to the neighbourhood, with his wife and daughter, though his wife was rarely seen. James intellect had grown substantially for him to be able to deduce things. _Mr Jones, can I tell you a joke?_ He asked the domestic man once he saw him outside the house, dropping out his garbage. _I guess. Shoot it, boy. _James smile; he knew he was so right about his deduction. _Mrs Jones walked into a bar and slowly alcoholism tears your family apart. _After studying his reaction carefully, James made sure to tell the whole neighbourhood about Mrs Jones being an alcoholic; he was indeed right. Two days later the Jones' daughter found her father hanging by the neck on the basement of the house.

Agony took over his mother's heart. She felt she had failed in raising him. He was not the same little boy she used to out for a day on the beach and that madly chase after seagulls, his laugh being the most adorable sound in the world. He wasn't the same boy that had a cheeky smile and loved his dog dearly. He wasn't the same boy that asked for a sibling. He wasn't the same.

Rage took over his father's heart. He felt he had failed raising him. He wasn't the same little boy with whom he built wood boats and that waved happily to his father as the little boat would sail itself on the park's lake. He wasn't the same boy that had a cheeky smile and a passion for school and intelligence games. He wasn't the same boy he dreamt would become a successful scientist. He wasn't the same.

Too bad that he didn't feel to be the same one either. Or gladly enough he didn't feel the same one either. Everyone was too slow and boring. And so he remembered Powers' murder and that one kid that stubbornly wanted to solve it. Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. He had to find him. He was smart. Well, not too smart, he was as idiot as everybody, but he seemed like a good challenge.

Years passed and he found him. When James says Sherlock owes him a fall, he means it. He hasn't savoured his suffering yet. And the anticipation to savour that was deliciously aching him inside.

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><p><strong>Three more chapters in progress. One with John and Victoria, other with John and Sherlock and a last one with Sherlock, Victoria and... Jeanine! <strong>

**Reviews are always appreciated. I'm so happy about the success this story is having. At the beginning of this story, I didn't know where this was going. I don't know now either. I don't even when or how to finish it. As long as the boat keeps sailing, I'll keep riding it. **


	21. Из России с любовью

**As the others chapters were being hard to come up with, the idea for this one (not planned) came up and so I wrote it.**

**Hope you guys enjoy it as I'm sure you always do.**

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><p>Being fifteen is a weird phase. It's not like you are a child, but you're not a young adult either. You're just standing in the middle of the crossroads, being bewildered and dethroned by feelings, emotions and mood changes that you don't control. You're just a tool to be experimented on by your own body, pushing barriers until you reach your break point. Hopefully you gather some knowledge from certain situations and are moulded with values for your adulthood.<p>

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><p>Mycroft hated that day in particular. He was going to take part on the school's spelling contest. He had participated every year and represented the school on the regional competition. But, this year was different. He was going up against Natalia Zhirova, the Russian girl from his class. His friend, the only one he really had. She was smart, as much as he was, sarcastic, teasing enough to keep Mycroft on the loop and interested. Natalia, in a certain way, forced Mycroft to always be the best. Whatever she'd do, he'd try to beat her, and then she'd overpass him, only to stimulate him. She was worth the effort; before Mycroft's eyes, Natalia was a challenge that he enjoyed being put up against every day. They sat together in classes and were pretty much always together, triggering rumours that they were a couple. Though, it wouldn't take long for someone to point out that a girl like Natalia could have much better than Mycroft. Even if he didn't feel any need of having friends (he never really expressed out loud that Natalia was his friend) or a person he'd care about, it bothered him deeply the fact that Natalia was all kinds of perfect. She was smart, funny and popular. The two of them were together for long periods of time, but it upset Mycroft whenever she'd hang out with the cool lads and he'd be left alone. He liked being alone, he couldn't understand why he hated so much when she wasn't present.<p>

The teenager walked straight away to the auditorium where he took a seat at the first row and waited there. He hadn't seen Natalia yet; he knew she wasn't a morning person, so that meant arriving twenty to thirty minutes late to school. His hands rested on his lap and he played with his fingers, taking short in and out breaths. He didn't know why he was nervous. He had done that contest three times and he knew he could rely on his capabilities. At the exact time, the other three students joined the room along with the English teacher who was the judge of the competition. Mycroft raised his look; Natalia was nowhere to be seen. The teacher took notes of the students' attendance, when he announced that Natalia was ruled out because she wasn't present.

"Professor, please," Mycroft plead. "wait a couple more minutes."

"Ms Zhirova isn't known for her punctuality, but if it's okay with everyone, we can wait." Looking at the other three students, he got an approval nod. He carried on. "But we're only waiting ten minutes. If she does not show up by then, she's ruled out."

"Understood."

Internally, and not knowing why, Mycroft was patiently waiting for Natalia to arrive. And she did. Her timing was indeed perfect, and that was something that Mycroft liked. Despite the fact that it annoyed him that she always arrived late, he liked that perfect timing sense of hers.

"You can thank me later, Лапушка." Mycroft whispered as the two climbed up the stairs to the stage. Natalia winked and smiled.

And so the contest began. As the opponents were eliminated, Mycroft grew nervous, until there was only him and Natalia left. Then he hit the maximum of panic and couldn't calm down. He didn't know what was going on. His palms were sweating, his heart was racing fast and his breathing was troubled. Everything he could see was a blur, he thought he had gone deaf and his brain was jumbling with thoughts that didn't matter at the moment.

"Ms Zhirova, are you ready?" The teacher asked.

Natalia nodded and got up from her seat, waiting to know the word she was supposed to spell out. Mycroft was lost, looking at her. He was gazing her face, focused, the way her black curls fell over her shoulder, her blue eyes attentive on the teacher. Even the way she was putting her right foot back on an upright position, ballet position, he immediately registered. He had seen her dance; she was marvellous.

"Picturesque."

"P-I-C-T-U-R-E-S-Q-U-E. Picturesque."

"Correct, Ms Zhirova. You may take your seat. Mr Holmes, are you ready?" Mycroft took a deep breath and nodded his head. The teacher announced his word. "Liaison."

The teenager studied the word in his head, and then said. "L-I-A-I-_Z_-I-O-N. Liaison."

"Incorrect. Liaison spells with _s_." Looking at his opponent, the English teacher expressed. "Therefore, Natalia Zhirova will be representing our school on the regional spelling contest. Congratulations, Ms Zhirova."

As soon as he heard that Mycroft walked out of the auditorium with long and quick strides. Natalia walked right after him; she knew he might be upset for having lost. Surprisingly enough Mycroft stopped on his way down once he heard her calling his name.

"Hey there." Natalia said after approaching him. Mycroft was silent. "You know, it's common courtesy for people to greet back."

"Hello." Mycroft told her with the tone of a pouted little child.

"Ooh, jeez, someone's pretty upset for having lost! Sorry I won." She joked and laughed.

Mycroft was confused. Her laugh was a beautiful sound, he had heard it before, but her words had been harsh. His grip tightened around the handrail as he turned around. "If you must point your finger at me and laugh, please respect the queue. I'm sure there will be a long one."

"Why so?" Natalia asked, curious. Mycroft did not appear alright.

"Because I'm a disappointment… to my parents, my teachers. Now I'll go from the smarty-pants Holmes to the dumb Holmes."

"Hey, I know you've been representing the school for the past years, but it's no reason to be like this. These things happen-"

"No, things like this they just don't happen… I don't know what happened in there. I'm a disappointment to myself. But it's not my fault, though. You're not a righteous winner, Natalia. If I did not have a problem, I would have won."

"Uh, well, I did spell correctly nine words and you only spelled eight. I'm pretty sure I won righteously." Mycroft scoffed and said no more. The girl's face softened even more as she asked him. "Why did you let me win?"

"I didn't let you win."

"Alright," Natalia walked down the staircase a bit more, being two steps up the one he was. She crossed her arms over her chest. "what did happen then?"

"Nothing happened."

"Make up your mind, will you? A bit ago you said you didn't win because something happened to you and now you're saying nothing's wrong."

"What happened is that I lost the spelling contest to a Russian girl who has been in the country for three years. I lost an English contest spelling to a foreigner!"

Natalia walked past him and made sure to bump her shoulder on his, spitting an angry Russian babble. "Ты идиот!"

"Hey!" He shouted.

"You'll tell me some day, right?" She told him, her eyes shining on a beg. She really wanted to know what was wrong with Mycroft.

Mycroft looked down for a while. "I don't know what happened, alright? I always have answers for everything, but this time I don't, ok?" He then stormed off before she could say anything else or even go after him.

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><p>Mycroft went through his clothes in the wardrobe and found the garments he wanted. He got out these dark blue jeans, a plain white T-shirt, a black leather jacket and a pair of black work boots. He slipped into the T-shirt firstly and then he put on the jeans, to which he ended up adding one of his father's belts with a big buckle. Then he put on the boots and the leather jacket. As his garments were complete, he moved to the bathroom.<p>

Mycroft dug two fingers in the jar of gel and scooped out a large dab. He rubbed the pomade together in his palms and run it evenly through the top portion of his hair. Then he proceeded to grab to comb his hair back until it was slick and smooth enough to place one hand on the top of his head, right in the middle. Mycroft pushed the hair forward while combing it in the front straight up and created a wedge shape from the front to the back. To finish it, he blended the sides into the top and looked himself in the mirror. He stuffed his hands in the pocket and put on brooding look; he looked just like James Dean and he liked it.

His mother smiled once she saw her always-so-neat son with such dishevelled appearance. He was going through his teen years and she was sure that a girl was part of the reasons why he was dressing up like that. Sherlock found him strange and got a head slap because of saying so. Mycroft had zero tolerance to his little brothers' childish attitudes. Adolescent stuff. Quickly walking out the house, he met Natalia on the bus. She covered her eyes with the hand and laughed.

"What's with the clothes, James Dean?"

He asked her as he took a seat next to her, chewing a gum with his mouth slightly open. "Do I look bad on these?"

"No, actually, no… You look different."

The two were in relative silence when Mycroft softly spoke, pulling her out her thoughts. "Natalia?" She took her eyes from the outside and looked at him. "Я позволил вам выиграть."

"Почему?"

Mycroft shrugged. He didn't know the answer either. He didn't know why he wasn't feeling bad for having purposely failed the spelling contest. He didn't know why in the morning he picked up those clothes. He didn't know why he felt the need to impress her somehow. Simply he didn't know anything.

"I knew you had faked it. You have greater skills than I do. And I do know why you purposely failed." Mycroft waited for her explanation, but instead she asked him something else. "This is a no question asked type thing, ok? Close your eyes."

Next thing Mycroft realized was that Natalia's lips were on his, her tongue gently forcing his lips to part. When he allowed her to do so, astonished by the mint flavor suddenly lingering in his mouth, Mycroft lost control of his self. He was a normal teenager enjoying his first kiss. When they pulled back to fill their lungs with air, Mycroft's mind started working again. He was a ball of tension, ready to burst at any moment.

"It's not that this wasn't good. I just…"

As he couldn't explain himself, Natalia did it for him. "I know you, Mycroft. You're not type of guy who wants to have anyone around, but I'm a kiss doesn't mean we have to marry." Natalia placed her hand on his thigh and he tensed. Every muscle of his body tensed and a felt the pool of warmth bubbling inside of him. "And it doesn't mean we have to be like those gross people." As she dragged her hand upper his leg, he gasped, feeling his organ hardening. "We can keep this interesting. No boredom. What do you say?"

Mycroft showed half a grin and told her. "You're poisonous gift. Из России с любовью."

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><p><strong>I guess you'll have to go to a translate program and find out what they said! xD I'm mean sometimes! <strong>

**Reviews are important. There are still four chapters to come, but suggestion are always nice.**


	22. Blame It On The Girls

**I'm sorry it took so long to update. I'm getting a bit crowded with uni's work, but it's all ending now. Thank God!**

**Enjoy this chapter. I feel it needed to go back a little back to what this story is really about.**

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><p>It was nearly impossible for Jeanine to continue working. The only sound that was audible on the office room was Jeanine's failed attempts to carry on typing a full sentence on the computer's keyboard. She had to raise her eyes at Victoria sitting right in front of her. The girl's eyes were focused on her; she was curious and yet apprehensive to make a single peep. Victoria swung on her legs on the chair and both her arms were resting over the armrest of the office chair. The two of them were mentally putting blames on Sherlock.<p>

John had left early for a lunch with his old army buddies and he wasn't going to take Victoria because it'd be bore the poor girl and also, John did really need some time on his own. He loved his daughter with all his heart but between working on cases with Sherlock and conciliating it with a routine-type life for his daughter, John had no time for himself. Being so, and for the first time ever, John left Victoria to Sherlock's responsibility. The genius didn't want to disappoint his friend since he conceded him that chance of looking after his goddaughter for the first time, all alone. But Sherlock was divided. He had a case he was working on, promising and challenging as they always are, but he'd have Victoria clinging to him the whole time. He needed to go to McClelland & Portland's office, a barrister's office, get an entry card and investigate the case there. Although, it was indeed a bonus that Jeanine worked there; in fact she was the one that was providing him the entry card that he swept in every door, so he joined together business and pleasure: he was still going to work on the case and Victoria would be safe and away from him so he could do it freely. He dropped her off at Jeanine's office and left before the woman could even say a word.

Jeanine got up from her chair, on an attempt to get away from Victoria's stare. As she was back turned to the girl, stapling some sheets, she said. "You're not the talkative type, I see."

"I know all of Uncle Sherlock's friends, but I don't know you."

"Well," The woman turned around and walked closer to the girl. "my name is Jeanine. What's yours?"

"I'm Victoria. You can…" Victoria silenced herself. She didn't know Jeanine well enough to disclosure her nickname.

"Nice to meet you Victoria. How old are you?" Victoria held up five fingers, showing Jeanine her age. "Wow, five-years-old? You're so grown-up."

Victoria growled and looked away with a displeased look; no one ever use baby-talk on her. Only Mrs Hudson, but she doesn't mind. Victoria liked and wanted to be treated as an equal, as Uncle Sherlock did. He never failed to explain her things to its precise detail, even if she didn't understand most of the things. And her father never lied to her, no matter how bad the subject was. He promised he'd always tell her the truth. Being so, Victoria didn't like Jeanine that much. Even if Uncle Sherlock had trusted her to Jeanine's care, the girl wanted to conduct a small interrogation to the adult woman.

"When did you meet Uncle Sherlock?"

Jeanine returned to her chair, now with a wide smile, relieved to finally breaking the ice. "I actually met Sherlock at you parents' wedding. He was your Uncle's best man and I was one of the bridesmaids. We…. We got friends and started dating."

Victoria gulped in some air in shock. Uncle Sherlock must have been insane to let her in a room with that woman. In her head, Sherlock would never have a relationship of any kind, so for Victoria it clearly meant that Jeanine was either lying or had a severe mental problem. "Uncle Sherlock doesn't get girlfriends…" She said on a low tone of voice, trying to go unnoticed when sliding down the chair.

"You're right, he doesn't. He just dated me for interest." Jeanine realized Victoria was very well taught, watching her carefully walking to the door. "Did your Uncle or your dad ever tell you about Charles Augustus Magnussen?"

Victoria breathed in a troubled way again; Uncle Sherlock was insane. Still, she put on her brave face and looked up at the woman. "Uncle Sherlock says he twists his stomach and daddy says he'll tell me about it when I'm older and I can understand."

"Well, I used to work for him, at a newspaper's publisher." The five-year-old girl stepped back and knocked down the chair with fright. "Don't be scared. I did what I do here. And just like all the people that worked for him, I didn't know that he was _that_ kind of man. But if you're father and Uncle didn't tell you about him, I won't either. All of this to explain you that when your Uncle Sherlock went up against him, he needed to get in the building, and just like he did today, he needed me for that."

"Everywhere you go there's trouble." Victoria observed.

Jeanine laughed and told her. "You are the most adorable and smartest girl ever. But I guess you are right. Can you just not tell you Uncle that I accidently set free some of his bees?"

This time Victoria's mouth opened in scare. "You lost Uncle Sherlock's bees? He loves them and is always saying one day he'll take me and daddy to the cottage in Sussex."

"My dog Biscuit and I will be very pleased to have you over too. Your Uncle bought half of my cottage for himself." Jeanine explained the girl. The woman pulled herself up from her chair and walked to pick up the one Victoria was sitting. "Care to sit again? I feel that we can get along, don't you? You think your Uncle would leave you with me if I was a threat?"

"With Uncle Sherlock I can never know what I have to do." She replied as she climbed up to her chair.

With that Victoria managed to make Jeanine laugh again. "You are quite something, but I guess it has something to do with living with John and Sherlock."

The little girl nodded her head and confirmed. "Mrs Hudson says so too. Do you know Uncle Sherlock calls me munchkin? Like the tiny people of Wizard of Oz!"

Jeanine's stomach hurt at that time; just from the laughter that girl could pull from her. "It must be funny to live in 221B. Does Mike show up too?"

"Mike?"

"His brother, Mycroft or something."

"Oh, you mean Captain Dumb? I beat him at _Guess Who?_."

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><p><em>Victoria is hilarious. My stomach still hurts from laughing and it has been two hours since you two left.<em>

Sherlock frowned when reading the text and replied back to Jeanine once he eyed Victoria and suspected something. _What did she tell you? - SH_

_Oh, so many things. I can make you a list if you want! _The response came a shortly after. It worried Sherlock even more. Mrs Hudson would fill her head with all kinds of ideas and then she'd tell outlandish stories.

_You better start that list. I want to know about everything. - SH_

Sherlock didn't get any response from Jeanine, but he didn't really need it; the way Mrs Hudson whispered and giggled was enough to know that Jeanine knew some of 221B funny stories. John arrived a while later and walked straight to Sherlock noticing that he was lost in his immensity of thoughts, sitting on his chair.

"How did the day with Victoria go?"

"A disaster. She may have leaked important and confidential information of what happens in here."

John rolled his eyes and left him alone, walking to his daughter. "Did Uncle Sherlock behave today?" He asked as he picked her up in arms and put a kiss on her head.

"Yes, Uncle Sherlock behaved just fine. Don't worry, daddy. If he'd with me, he's fine."

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><p><strong>On upcoming chapters (order of the chapters are still undefined)<strong>

**Spoils of war – Sherlock and John get caught in an accident on the underground and while Sherlock's focused on finding who planned the attack, John has flashbacks of his time in war and starts to lose it **

**Doctor Watson – Victoria gets chicken pox, and consequently John who never had it, gets it too. The two of them spend the day at the flat, Victoria plays doctors on her father and it reminds him when he was a kid playing doctors on his dog.**

**Highway to Hell – Irene Adler (aka the woman woman) comes to look for Sherlock's help and drops a poisonous, yet harmless, substance on his tea. Sherlock is is feverish and hallucinating about a person that doesn't exist (will not be unveiling it just now)**

**Check mate! – Sherlock is defeated on chess game by a peculiar character (will not be unveiling it just now)**


	23. Spoils Of War

**It took me a little while to update, but I'm having final exams, so...**

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><p>Sherlock waited on the platform with his arms behind his back and John was standing next to him. The two were waiting on the Tube. The little jingle was heard before the woman's voice announced, "Please mind the gap between the train and the platform."<p>

There was a large blast and a heat wave blew them meters away.

_**Please mind-**_

It all happened in one second, no more, no less.

_**-mind the gap-**_

The woman's voice had turned into some creepy repetition on Sherlock's head. He was breathing heavily, lying on the floor.

_**-the train and the-**_

No matter how much he tried to hush it, the woman's voice was constantly ringing on the back of his head, robotic-like, disturbing, in a way sounding psychedelic and twisted enough to leave him scared. The sight was foggy because of the dust in the air and tears swelling in his eyes. His ears were deafened and yet the blend of screams kept his head spinning. There was pain, somewhere, Sherlock didn't know quite well where. Something wet and hot was rushing down his forehead but he was too confused to sort a thought.

_**-mind the gap-**_

Sherlock jolted and sat up as a loud gasp escape from his mouth. He could see clearly again and his ears were unclogged. He turned his head, looking for John. From the mouth of two escaped the first syllables of each other's names; it stopped there once the two confirmed that both were relatively alright. A few cuts and bruises, but alright.

A bombing. On London's underground. It was a big problem.

The train that had stopped by was tumbled. Hundreds of people were lying all over the platform, many more inside the train, blood everywhere, screams of pain and begs for help echoing in the air. Suddenly it was hard to breath; the station seemed too small and much too crowded.

Claustrophobia. Panic. Chaos. Pain.

John promptly got up, yelling that he was a doctor. He was running here and there, shouting as a primary means of communication. The good doctor was helping out everyone he could, but he only had two hands and a mind racing with flashbacks of war that weren't helping at all.

"_Doctor! Over here!_" _Another soldier was brought on a stretcher and abruptly dropped on the ground of the infirmary tent. _

_The man screamed and shouted; his leg was shredded into pieces. "Nurse," Watson yelled, "a sedative and a saw. We have to amputate his leg."_

"_No, doctor!" the soldier yelled louder, as if he was already feeling the saw cutting off his leg. "No!" _

"Doctor! Over here!" A woman yelled, holding up her husband's head, the man lying unconscious on her lap.

John's fingers went straight to his neck and only lasted there for seconds. "He's dead, nothing I can do about it." He got up quickly and focused on helping others.

"_Doc_tor!" Both the woman before him and the soldier in his head pleaded.

Sherlock gazed and walked around, not knowing why he was limping, but not giving it any particular attention either. Adrenaline was keeping his pain at a low rate at the moment. He moved through the people as if he was detached from the place he was inserted, lost in his own world. The genius observed the devastating effects caused by the bomb. Home-made he concluded, pressure cook bombs, like the ones used in Boston in 2012 or Tel Aviv the following year. Not one bomb, though, various, he couldn't tell the exact number. But he could tell pressure cook bombs were used as he saw nails, ball bearings, and black powder. Giving the destruction waves, Sherlock managed to locate the epicenter of the bombings. He got to a terrible conclusion. Five different epicenters, meaning five bombers. It wasn't a big problem; it was a massive problem.

Suddenly John stopped. His breathing intensified and his hand flew to his shoulder, clutching the wound there. He finally felt the nail that was stuck deep on his flesh, but all he could think about was the Jezail bullet that incapacitated him during war. The bullet had shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery and it had left John scarred for life. He fell on his knees and all he could remember was the Sargent barking his name and the way his eyes were narrowing, seeing the enemies coming closer and closer to him. He also remembered Murray's good hand that threw him across a packhorse and safely dragged him to British lines. But the pain… oh no, there was nothing anyone could do about his pain. This time it was him who was yelling and pleading, not any soldier that had come to him. It was himself shouting in agony. That one nail that he now had stuck on him wasn't hurting that much, but his wicked imagination was letting him to believe so.

When he tried to get up on his shaky legs, the limp was back. The psychosomatic limp was back. Even so, John battled hard to be stronger than his thoughts, but it was no use. He had succumbed to his traumatized self and couldn't take a step forward. Sherlock realized that. John was yelling, maybe louder than anyone else. He was self-destructing himself at a rapid pace, and Sherlock couldn't let that happen.

"John! John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, concern mirrored on his face.

John looked at his friend, bobbing back and forward, breathing in a troubled way. He took a good look at him, from head to toe and gasped, terrified "Your leg."

Just then Sherlock looked down at himself. The pain he was feeling wasn't any sympathetic feeling his mind was forcing to believe on, it was actual pain of a nail stuck to his knee.

"I'm alright," Sherlock lied as the pain suddenly build up. "just keep calm, John. EMTs have arrived; they'll take care of everyone."

It didn't matter what Sherlock was telling him. John felt in need to help everybody else on his own and everything he was gazing was a war scenario, not a bombing in an underground station. Sherlock grabbed a nurse that was running by and told him, "This is Doctor John with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Administrate him something; he is having a panic attack."

The nurse stopped only because aiding John wouldn't take long. He pulled out a needle and injected him with a sedative. John attempted to fight the sedative effect but soon collapsed unconscious on Sherlock's arms.

John gasped loudly and sat up in bed, clutching the sheets. He awoke up in the infirmary of the hospital. The pain was soothed, but he could feel a large patch put on his shoulder. When the doctor looked around in clear panic, he saw his friend Sherlock sitting next to him, with a bandage on his knee and his face cuts healed.

"You had me sedated, haven't you?"

Sherlock feigned ignorance and asked him instead, "Feeling better now?"

John let his body hit back on the bed and sighed, "Yes, I'm better now. Thanks." He observed Sherlock and commented. "You've got new companions."

Sherlock looked at the crutches, "These? Yes, the doctor said I have to befriend them for some weeks if I want to walk normally any time soon."

"That will be something interesting to watch." John showed a small smirk.

The genius knew his doctor friend was alright, but not totally. The nightmares would be back for some time, and it was his task to ease it down for him.

That's one thing about war; it leaves a permanent scar.

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><p><strong>It is a bit bittersweet, I know.<strong>


	24. Explorers

**I believe I've done no justice to the beautiful musical piece composed by Matt Bellamy, but it is supposed to be seen from a child genius perspective, so if any better or worst it will suffice.**

**Anyway here's the song (only the instrumental) that I'm attempting to describe): youtube watch?v=x13iAEeHpyQ**

**(The version with the voice singing is equally beautiful, but I'm biased as I love Muse...!)**

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><p>It all started with a blank page.<p>

Suddenly something came to my head. It was only a single note. A lonely C2. I thought what I could do with it. A full C chord, maybe. And so it was. To the lonely, and now turned into a bass note, C2 I added a C3, an E3 and a G3. Too vague and yet to familiar.

Maggie's music box. Dad used to spin the windup key and open the lid. The little ballerina started dancing and that melody would play. It stuck on my head.

But the C chord was too vague. It needed a better melodic line, which I instantly came up with. Without even realizing it, soon there were more and more notes, full chords with added 7ths and 9ths, major, minors and diminished. After seven pages I tiredly got to the end. That was just the piano part that was ringing in my head.

I went back through all seven pages and more instruments begged me to be a part of the song.

Wouldn't a xylophone be marvellous, playing the basic chord notes? Yes, it would, and so I created a xylophone melodic line that could discreetly play throughout the entire song.

By the second turnaround of piano I thought I could add a bass melodic line. A diminished scale played on high notes, perfectly blending in with the piano _pianissimo leggiero _tempo.

And then the bass turned into a monotones pulse, like a pounding heart, settling with the piano bass note, so that the drum ride cymbal at 60 beats per minute, three notes per second, could shyly make an appearance and let the strings shine as well. Violas started playing a baritone melody then violins played the same phrase, slowly but very shyly rising in volume. The bass did the melodic line again and then, along with the kick drum, the two settled into a 1-pause-1-2-pause beat. Chimes ringing, I could put that too. Ringing as soft as if the wind brushed them.

The beach vacation in Brighton. At the time Mom was pregnant with Ellie, and Mom and Dad were still together. I remember at night coming to the window of our rented house and listen to the wind softly brushing the metal tubes of the wind chime put outside Alfie and mine's bedroom.

The violins return, solely, still playing the same melodic phrase and by now I've already filled four pages with its melody. I put a note at the bottom of the page: wood block playing in double time and off-beat.

It reminded me of a galloping horse striding faster than other horses. Like the horse race Dad once took me to watch. I bet on the right horse, the one Dad didn't want me to bet because it looked too sick and incapable of wining. But it won and I've never seen Dad that happy and proud before.

Adding sleigh bells, a tambourine and handclaps by now was great, so that the piano could melt into a _grazioso_ mood. The rhythmic instruments were kept slightly soft now as the piano grew stronger and yet quitter as a background melody of higher notes and the violins took prominence playing. It seemed angelical, if it'd sound as I was listening in my head. The bass was still delighting the ears of the most attentive ones. It soon fused into the diminished scale as the piano softened. The chimes slightly played in the distance, smooth and soothing as it was supposed. Everything hushed but the instrument of black and white keys. A bass piano note is held until the fade away and an acute high note is left to breath at the end. The song was done.

I looked around. Dozens of scribbled music sheets were scattered on the wooden floor. I felt like passing out. I could feel the blood furiously throbbing inside me and a massive headache growing. But I was happy because the whole piece of music reminded me, of several things indeed, but a particular and a very special one: my adventure times in the garden when I pretended to be an explorer, going through a thick and dangerous forest. And I fell asleep on the floor with that memory.

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><p><em>Frankie breathed on the lenses of the compass and figured it out which way was north. He raised his eyes in the direction the needle pointed and smiled. Under his arm he put the flabby stuffed dog that he named Mr. Winterbourne. He followed the direction the compass indicated.<em>

_He crawled through the garden with a mac on, dirtying his clothes with mud, dragging with him the poor Mr. Winterbourne all smeared in filth. Every once in a while, Frankie would raise his head from under the flowers and tall grass, to feel the rain and the wind, to make sure he was still in the right track. He was so embroiled on his adventure, imagining that he was lost on a tropical island, that he crawled to the backyard wooden gate and hit his head there. _

_At some time he had to grab a stick when an inoffensive insect threatened his life. The boy was the first to grant an attack and the grasshopper defended itself by jumping. Frankie jumped back to the ground, lying face down, waiting for the fierce animal to leave him alone. When he raised his head he saw before his eyes, completely relaxed, lying on a small stone, a lizard. He panted and got up quickly, running away from it. He stopped in the middle of the garden. _

_The rain had ceased and the setting sun shyly shone on the horizon. Frankie was only left with the Mr. Winterbourne's craftiness and an Action Force that he had found among the grass. It sent a SOS in Morse code. The adventure in the forest had been too dangerous, he wanted to return home._

_A loud but friendly roar made the whole garden shake. Frankie believed it was a cyclone, some hungry dragon, or a much worse beast._

_It was just his father's voice calling out for him._

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><p>Lestrade entered the flat only to find his son sleeping on the floor surrounded by dozens of music sheets scattered all over the place, and Sherlock sitting on the couch with a disbelief expression on his face.<p>

"Looks like you two bored each other." Lestrade assumed that Frankie had fallen asleep, bored, and that Sherlock composed a piece of music.

That was when Sherlock raise his eyes at the DI, his look vague as if he had seen something surreal. "He did all of this."

Lestrade then adopted the same face as Sherlock as they gazed the eight-year-old sleeping peacefully. A couple of hours before Lestrade had left his son at 221B. Frankie had been displaying some absurdly genius behaviour and he believed that leaving his son with a genius himself would help. Turned out it was Sherlock who was amazed by the boy's behaviour. He wrote a musical composition in less than an hour. Lestrade was aware that an autistic child had a much more developed artistic sense, but he never seen it reveal on his son. The boy couldn't even play an instrument, as far as he knew.

And in the meantime Frankie never spoke and didn't write a word other than the notes he added on the music sheets and the name of his composition:

_Explorers._

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><p><strong>Reviews would be nice, as always. I might upload a new chapter later on today (might... no promises!)<strong>


	25. Check Mate!

**I actually finished up another chapter, and as I said I'd do, here it is.**

**I have to thank ObservationofTrifles for the chess help. I hope I didn't make any mistake. If so, I'm sorry!**

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><p>Sherlock was having a stimulating chess game with a five-year-old. He was the whites, she was the black pieces. Up to the moment the two of them were preparing their tactics, just to start attacking for real in no time. This was who the game was laid on the chess board after twenty minutes of game:<p>

So far he had moved 5 of his 8 pawns: two of them were on the fourth row, two others on the fourth, and a lonely pawn was left abandoned in the F5 position. Both his bishops had moved as well, directly put before the empty spaces from where two pawns had been taken. A knight was out in the fight, and so was his queen.

As for his opponent Sherlock could tell that she was far more careful with pawns that he was; only three of them were moved, and all three kept, so far, on her territory. Both knights and bishops were out of their original places and one of her rooks castled.

Sherlock moved one of his bishops to her side of the board. His rival reacted, capturing one his pawns with one her ones. The genius acted the same way, throwing out of the game one of the five-year-old pawns. She didn't enjoy it and captured another of his pawns. If it meant to be a battle of nerves then Sherlock had to win it. He captured a white pawn.

It was her turn to play and she simply throw off the game another his pawns with her bishop. Sherlock decided to boldly put his queen eve more into the game, daring the girl to react to react. He did the same thing, confidently moved his queen to D5.

Sherlock retrieved her queen and the girl ended up doing the same. They were testing each other; it was much more than just a chess game. Sherlock was frowning, preoccupied but he knew from whom she had pulled such boldness, her father. But, giving it a quick thought he then concluded that all that cheekiness didn't lead her father anywhere, and so the same would happen to her.

That was when he decided to move his knight to D2. The girl considered her strategies and moved her bishop F3. Next thing she noticed was that Sherlock had captured her bishop. She wasn't angry. She was grumpy, starting to sulk. In a mood she moved her knight. The man placed a bishop dangerously close to her piece. Being so she moved a pawn to his side of the board, to remind him she was still in the game. One of her brightest of the moves, she'd later realize.

His queen moved, one of her knights changed place as well. Sherlock moved his bishop to D1. A smile grew on the girl's face as she moved her knight to F3, sat back on her chair and said, "Check mate."

Whites had lost. Sherlock had lost.

Against a five-year-old.

She got up from her chair and walked to her father, who had just arrived and leaned on the doorframe, waiting for her. He had the same despising smile as she did.

"She won't be staying here anymore," Sherlock yelled as man and daughter walked down to the staircase.

Quickly he rearranged the chess tables to their original places, so that neither John or Victoria, or even Mr. Hudson or his annoying brother Mycroft, could tell he had lost. He always played with whites, it wouldn't take a genius to understand that he had lost the game.

"How did the day with Uncle Sherlock go?" Winston asked his daughter while the two strolled leisurely down Baker Street.

"A-ma-zing!" The girl sang. "I beat Uncle Sherlock in a chess game. Again." She added with a smirk.

"That's just great, Rita," Sherlock's little brother smiled. "I wanted to do that ever since the two of us were kids."

Winston and Rita crossed ways with John and Victoria, who were returning from school. The two residents of 221B could tell what had just happened by looking at both Sherlock's brother and niece. Once they entered the flat, Sherlock was playing violin and Victoria suggested.

"Uncle Sherlock, let's play chess."

"You don't know how to play chess, munchkin." Sherlock stopped playing for a while just to answer and carried on playing. "There's no pleasure in playing against someone who doesn't know how to play."

"I can play a little. And I can only learn by playing, right?"

Sherlock didn't let her speak twice. Who was he fooling? It'd be so pleasing to win an eight-year-old after having been beaten by his niece.

Whites had lost. Again. Sherlock had lost. Again.

This time against an eight-year-old.

Needless to say that when John kindly offered himself to play against Sherlock, on an attempt to cheer him up, Sherlock refused. He couldn't take a third defeat in a single day.

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><p><strong>Just to avoid what happened in the previous chapter, we first met Rita (even though she was still a newborn) back in chapter 19.<strong>

**Hope you have enjoyed this.**


	26. When The Sun Goes Down

**Three songs took influence over me when I wrote this chapter:**

**No. 1 Party Anthem, Arabella and When The Sun Goes Down, all by Arctic Monkeys.**

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><p>If I were ever to give an advice I'd simply say not to step out of the house once the sun sets. People change.<p>

One would not expect me to ever felt attraction for a woman. I did not fall in love truly, I must say. She simply attracted me. As she attracted many others.

Ruby Hollingbery.

She had natural ruby hair, the curls gently falling over her shoulders. She was owner of icy blue eyes, piercing and enticing as possible to imagine. She was white as snow. Her face was round and thin, delicate, but her cheeks were always rosy. Her silhouette, as seen from behind, assimilated to an hourglass. She liked to wear light, flowery dresses and heeled shoes. Ruby seemed like a china doll, as frail and flawless as one. But, as far as I deduced her intellectually from her actions, she was everything but made of fragile material. Toxicity revolved around her like air around every human being.

She was wicked. Whenever she walked in the party she'd take the crucifix she wore around her neck and keep it on the small purse she carried. There was no more good and religious girl.

She was caustic. The way her icy blue eyes looked at a person was disconcerting. It was a look that had as much of tantalizing as it had of danger.

She was unusual. She had a mind of a kind, demanding on her choices, refined likings. She inflamed the heart of many, but not even one incited her back.

She was persuasive. One word out of her mouth turned into a spell. One touch of her hand turned into a submission. No wonder the number of guys who blindly wanted her.

But most of all, she was clever. And she knew exactly how to make people fall for her.

I was on the, so far, empty bar, quite at the dark corner. She walked in, gave me a small smile, to which I did not reply. The collar of my leather jacket was popped like an antenna as I was leisurely having a smoke. She sat at one of the stools at the counter, ordered her drinking. She was just standing there, waiting for others to come. Her eyes invited me to approach her. And so I walked closer to her. Next thing I knew I was sitting on the stool next to her.

She was a certified mind blower knowing full well that I wasn't. She bought me a drink, and then another and other one. At some point, I was babbling drunken monologues, confused. It wasn't because I was falling in love. I just want her to do me no good... and she looked like she could do it for me.

She then beckoned her folks who ran the place, her old friends. I was left alone. After that I have vague memories of what happened.

The rush of blood, the "she's with me' and the punch I took to the face, the good time girls started flirting with me and the cubicles where they took me, and the number one party anthem ringing in the back of my head.

The colours dodged away from my sight and everything started spinning around. I ended up out in the street. I started walking my way home. The streets were deserted until I found a picturesque scenario.

There was a woman out in the street, a prostitute. I wondered what went wrong so that she had to roam the streets. There was a man out in the street as well, a man out for money to buy some drugs. I started to wonder what his story might be because he was a scumbag man that if given half the chance, he'd rob someone. And then a car stopped by the woman; Mister Inconspicuous rolled down the window. He was a classy man, appeared to be wealthy. She was in the stance ready to get picked up, glad when she saw him. She was wearing a scantily clad beneath the clear winter night sky; she must be freezing.

And then I realized. The prostitute was Ruby. The Mister Inconspicuous was our Algebra teacher from school. And the other man, the one that was already on the way to mug the teacher? That one was me. I was in the need of drugs.

It sure it's true that people turn into different people when the sun goes down.

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><p><strong>If I used drugs I'd probably say that this chapter was written under its influences. I don't drugs, so this may be hella weird...<strong>


	27. Drive my car

**This is a bit of a silly idea, but I've been neglecting this fanfiction, so let's go with silly... instead of weird, as it happened in the last chapter.**

**Little notes:**

**Mycroft is 24-years-old, Sherlock is 17-years-old, Winston is 14-years-old**

**Word count of the chapter: 221. (it was on purpose!)**

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><p>There is a reason why Sherlock doesn't drive. A logical reason.<p>

Easter Eve, 1997. 10 PM.

110 kilometres of asphalted road. Better yet, 110 kilometres of pure motorway, nothing else in the darkness of the night that was settling down.

Sherlock had to drive to his relatives' house in Sussex, his grandparents, and had to give a ride to his brother Winston. Mother and Father were in Sussex already, even Mycroft.

Winston had stayed back in their house in London, having volunteered to help in a kennel. He was a big boy, 14 years of age; he could take care of himself all alone.

Or maybe not.

15 minutes into the trip he had to pee. 10 minutes break, to urinate and then he contemplated the stars.

30 minutes into the trip he was hungry. 45 minutes break, to eat relaxed and properly.

1 hour into the trip and they had a flat tire. 2 and half hours break, to fix the tire.

Finally Winston slept, but he snored.

Sherlock hated that night more than ever.

They arrived at 5 AM. Sherlock nudged his brother, "Next time, Mycroft gives you a ride. He has a driver!" Sherlock grumbled.

Result: 7 hours of a trip that could be done in about hour and a half.

Sherlock hated that night more than ever.

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><p><strong>So, why, that was it. Let me know your thoughts and any suggestions you might have. I plan to end this story in chapter 30, so we're coming closer to it.<strong>


	28. Oh What A Night

**Here it is a new chapter. The plot line of this chapter was actually supposed to be in two different chapters, but I decided to change it a bit and join them. As I have plans to end this fanfiction on the 30th, I had to make a small modification.**

**Hope you all enjoy it.**

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><p>There are some moments that stay with people forever. For all of the residents of 221B, there was one special night that changed everything.<p>

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><p>Victoria and Mrs. Hudson were watching a soap opera on the upper floor of the house. Sherlock and John were out and they were not expected to return anytime soon as they were really close to wrap up another case. The eight-year-old kept yawning, refusing to go to bed without seeing Dad and Uncle Sherlock returning home.<p>

When a commercial break came up, Victoria turned to the landlady and asked her, "Remember the other day when daddy and I were sick with chicken pox? We watched a film about The Beatles that he said he watched when he was sick as a kid. Were The Beatles really _that_ famous?"

"Oh, yes, they were really talented and funny. And handsome." She added, raising her eyebrow.

"You liked them too?"

"Girls went crazy for them, I was no different. There were lots of screams and swoons. I actually remember reading on the news that one of them once got herself inside a box to mail herself to the boys but once the police found out, they took her out nearly dead from asphyxiation."

"Yeah, I could tell they had their brains full of cats, I saw it in the film. They were running after them, yelling and crying and stumbling."

"Like these girls nowadays are any different, running after those Five Direction boys."

Victoria giggled, "It's One Direction, Mrs. Hudson, but I don't like their music. I think The Beatles were better. Uncle Sherlock had put some of their music, that he listened in college, and it's pretty cool."

"That's really good, that you like them. One of the best nights I ever had in my life went with two Beatle songs."

Victoria seemed curious to know about that night. Mrs. Hudson got the hint and tapped the seat next to her on the couch, for the girl to come and sit there.

"We, the youngsters, had the most fun in the dance clubs. I can tell you about one day I went dancing, the last time I went to a club, really. Oh I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was 26, which was a lot back then. In those days girls married really early in their life, and I was being pressured by my parents, and my grandmother, to get married."

"Was it when you met Mr. Hudson?" Victoria asked as she put her finger in her mouth, to help removed the hard candy that had stuck to her molar tooth.

"No, although I met him around the same time. But that night was the best one of my life. It was the day when I met James," Mrs. Hudson smiled as the memories of the young man came to her head, "James David Wright." Her smile then slowly faded as she softly spoke, in regret, "He was Mr. Right and I married Mr. Wrong… Oh, but those are past days. Still want to hear about that night?" As Victoria nodded her head, Mrs. Hudson started, "It was late December, way back in '63. The dance clubs were far more elegant than now,

_The ballroom was elegant, with big chandeliers in the ceiling, small tables scattered around the room and cushioned seats near the walls. There was not much more decoration in the room, which was always full, but that seemed unlimited in taking in more people. The centre of the room was obviously used for dancing and at one corner was a small stage where bands sometimes played live. On the opposite side there was always a bar, ready to serve all drinks to cheer even more the dance nights and make socializing more fluid. _

_Whether it was live or recorded music, there were always lads and ladies dancing, with or without par, shaking to the sound of the rock 'n' roll, the skiffle and the pop ballads. It was impossible to enter the club and be still. The boys always wore suits, and the girls had their hair all done up, makeup, earrings, necklaces and bracelets. Each and every one had a different dress, and the heeled shoes they had on were taken off after some time, to allow some comfort to their crushed and hurt feet._

_The atmosphere was always relaxed; there was even time for conversations that had to be kept shouting so that one could listen to another. There was no rivalry between the men, as it was up to women to choose their pair for the evening, and for in some cases, their partner for life._

_She got into the room and got no one attention's but his. He was a tall young, brown haired, wearing a neat light-blue suit. His hazel eyes immediately locked on her. He had a round face, the Beatles-like mop-top haircut, and a heartthrob smile. Promptly he got up and walked to the bar and asked for a beer. He stood there, leaning on the counter, watching her blending in the dancing crowd. Once his booze was over, he crossed the room to meet her. Grabbing her by the hand, he made the woman spin around herself and cheekily smiled, starting to shake to "Roll Over Beethoven". She shook along. _

"_What's your name?" He asked, shouting, as the music was loud._

_She smiled and continued to dance, making him believe that she hadn't listen to his question. They continued to dance to other rock 'n' roll songs until her feet her burning and hurting, and she had to take them off and have a seat. James brought her a drink and sat next to her. They two chatted as best they could due to the loud music, but they sure had lots of laughs and affectionate smiles._

_As "All My Loving" came up, all the women grabbed a pair to dance. She got up and pulled him off the seat to the centre of the room to dance. She held on tight to that fine young man, wrapped her arms around his neck and he enhanced his around her hip, keeping her close to him. Leaning on his ear she whispered, "What's your name?"_

"_Wright, James David Wright. And what would yours be, little darling?"_

"I never told him my name," Mrs. Hudson told to the sleeping Victoria, "maybe I should have had."

James never got to know her name, but he knew she was beautiful, mesmerizing, everything he ever dreamed about a girl.

Victoria jolted and sat up, being awaken up by the front door slamming and John and Sherlock's shouting.

"There's no way I am agreeing with your decision, John!" Sherlock grumbled as he removed his jacket and threw it over the couch.

John walked after him, yelling as well, "I don't need your agreement, Sherlock."

"Yes you do as long as you live here in my flat."

"_Our_ flat! I pay for the rent as well. But, if you are so bothered by my decision, then Victoria and I should move out."

The girl was immediately scared once her father said that. Whatever it was that was going on between John and Sherlock was serious.

"You wouldn't last a day away, John. Last time you moved out you got married, gained pounds, got a child and turned a widower."

John was ready to counterattack Sherlock's retaliation, but Mrs. Hudson stopped them, "Boys, what is all this fuss about?"

"John wants to adopt a child!" Sherlock shouted and walked to his bedroom.

The doctor shrugged and sighed once the landlady looked at him. "His name is Eyal and he's just eleven-years-old. The kid has no fault in all of this… This case… it was a hard one for me. Eyal's father was British, his mother was Jewish and they were both manipulated and coerced to take responsibility for two murders. And now they dead and he has no other family. The kid has no fault in all of this."

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the shoulder and sympathetically said, "That's a very nice though, but don't you think you have to talk to some other people first?" Discreetly the woman signalled to Victoria.

"I know I do, but all I wanted was to talk with Sherlock first and have him understanding and respecting my intentions, and not doing _that_!"

"Give him some time, dear. He'll warm up to the idea if it indeed happens. Trust me, he wouldn't let you move out. The question is, do you really want to accept that boy because you want him to have a dysfunctional home as this or is it because of pity?"

"I'm not saying I'm going to make a decision for tomorrow. I know I have to think it through."

Mrs. Hudson looked back at Victoria, totally wide wake, "I'll leave you two to talk."

The landlady left and Sherlock was in his bedroom, sulky as a little child. John sat on the couch next to his daughter.

"How do you feel about this situation? Would you like to have a big brother?"

"Are we still going to move out?"

"That depends on how Uncle Sherlock accepts our decision. You know you are the most important person to me, in the whole world, so if you don't want me to adopt Eyal, I won't. And I know, I know we can't make this decision so lightly, so I ask you to think about it, because so will I."

Victoria simply nodded her head and promised to think about it, as best as a child of her age could ponder about it. The two walked to their beds, hoping for some peace and quietness; the quarrel between the detective and the doctor had been nasty and loud. Obviously there was no quietness because Sherlock decided to play violin. Victoria got up and showed up at the door, looking at him.

"What do you want?" Sherlock spat out, still heated and hurt.

"Don't ever fight with my dad or else I-"

The man cut her speech, whining, "He argued with me too."

"Or else I'll ask him for us to go away and leave you alone."

That hit Sherlock pretty hard. John, and even Victoria, meant everything for him. He didn't want them to leave. He was just feeling afraid that the new child wouldn't adapt, or that he wouldn't fit in the picture anymore. Sherlock put down his violin and sank on the couch.

"How serious is he about the adoption?"

"I don't know."

"And how do you feel about it?"

The girl smiled as she walked in the room, "I don't think I mind about it. You shouldn't mind it either, Uncle Sherlock."

"I think I should. Clearly the child won't like me-"

Victoria hugged tightly, "Everybody loves you." Sherlock snorted, disagreeing, "And if they don't, at least I will always like you."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around and got up, carrying her to her bed, "Thank you, munchkin."

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><p><strong>Your reviews will be very important on this chapter, I want to know about your thoughts. I'm totally pro John adopting Eyal, but I'll row my boat according to the wind you'll blow, so...<strong>

**Small note: if Eyal turns up again (if you want John to adopt him) then you'll know the relation he has with a someone I've mentioned on this chapter. This wasn't randomly planned.**


	29. If I Need Someone

**No, I have not forgotten about this fanfiction. I just didn't have any inspiration. And I know I didn't write this one chapter I said I would (about John and his dog), but I wrote this one instead, about Sherlock and his dog, Redbeard.**

**The idea for this chapter popped up after I watched "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close". Amazing movie, you should watch it because I think the main character, an eleven-year-old boy named Oskar, as some similarities with Sherlock.**

**Hope you guys enjoy this.**

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><p>Sherlock had sitting on his chair for hours now, not even moving a muscle, lost in his thoughts. John and Victoria were in the room as well, looking at online real estate sales. The doctor waited a few weeks of Sherlock ignoring his conversations about Eyal's adoption to start looking for a house. If he didn't want Eyal in the flat, then he'd move out with Victoria. The detective looked at the two of them, not wanting them to leave, but also believing that it was for the best if John would drop Eyal. If John would adopt him, Sherlock would have to add someone else to his equation, he was another liability, another person to protect, and he wasn't sure if his equation could take that many multiple variables.<p>

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><p><em>A day in 1989<em>

Mycroft stood by the door of his brother's bedroom. He could easily give the doorknob and turn and check if the door was unlocked or not, but he chose not to do it. If he had to approach Sherlock, he'd have to do it in the least evading way, so that he'd trust him and open himself the door.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft knocked twice on the door. "Would you let me in?"

Judging by the loud thump and the way the door trembled Mycroft concluded that Sherlock had kicked the door.

"Let me go in. Please?" The older one asked once more. "Mum and dad are worried. I just want to check if you are alright."

"I'm fine, thank you. Now, leave me alone, will you?"

Mycroft tried to turn the doorknob, but the door was still locked. "Sherlock, I know it's been days since you're stuck in there. Dad rang me earlier today. I know you don't get out to eat-"

"I've got provisions in my drawers."

The teenager sighed and pressed on, "I know you don't talk with mum or dad in days."

"Even though the Asperger's tests weren't conclusive, I know I fall on the autistic spectrum. My human and social interactions lack empathy, it's the way I am. Don't take offence if I don't show interest in your petty ordinary lives over worried with insignificant routine problems."

He needed a different approach to captivate his brother to open the door. One good way would be say something that would make Sherlock correct him; he always loved to be right.

"Yesterday at the campus, some blokes and I made a bet. When we tossed a penny to know who'd go first, I chose tails three times and every time I lost."

Sherlock sighed very deeply, explaining something that Mycroft perfectly knew, "If you toss a penny ten thousand times, it will mostly be heads four thousand and nine hundred and fifty times because the heads picture weighs more, so it ends upon the bottom."

"I thought that wasn't very logical since a coin weights less than an ounce." The older boy said, taking a seat on the floor, back leaning on the door.

"Everything counts, Mycroft." Sherlock, on the inside of the bedroom, sat in the same as Mycroft. "If the smallest things didn't count, then the first four moves per side in a game of chess couldn't be done in three hundred eighteen billion, nine hundred seventy-nine million, and five hundred sixty-four thousand possible different ways."

Mycroft slyly smirked; it was working. And so he carried on, "Did you know that the sentence 'the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog' uses every letter in the English language?"

"No word in the English language rhymes with month, orange, silver, and purple." The young one replied, being aware of Mycroft's mind game.

"Thomas Edison was afraid of the dark."

There was the sound of a click, the door was unlocked. Mycroft got up and just then Sherlock opened the door for him. "He was nyctophobic you mean."

"Why do you always like to use big words?"

"Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is the fear of long words." Sherlock smirked, "Are you a hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobic, Mycroft?"

Mycroft pressed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, pushing him back as he walked in the bedroom, "Can you just act normal for once, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's bedroom was a complete mess. There were clothes all over the floor, all sorts of books and written papers scattered over the bed and the wooden pavement. The curtains were drawn, giving the bedroom a taciturn and sullen mood. The world map was ripped off the wall, lying abandoned on the floor. Mycroft picked it up, remembering the times Sherlock and dad had spent putting X's all over it, marking the places where pirates could have hidden treasures, the ones that the boy sought to find.

Sherlock closed the door, claiming, "A, that's an oxymoron, and B, you know I can't act normal." Sherlock said as he was climbing up to seek refuge inside the cupboard above his wardrobe. "That's like, the oldest news ever."

"Climb down from there."

"Is it my only option?"

"It's a mandatory option." Mycroft replied, walking to him.

He enlaced his arm around Sherlock's waist, pulling him down. The boy tried to escape his brother's hold, but he was stronger, taller and older, being able to bring him down. Still he kicked up and grabbed the edges of wardrobe, to avoid being put on the floor. Nothing worked. When he was back on his feet, his shirt and pullover were rolled up, almost under his armpits, as a result of the tantrum and Mycroft saw his torso covered in pinch marks, some of them already bruising.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done."

Mycroft knew that every once in a while Sherlock would pinching himself brutally. The little one pulled down both the garments and hid under his bed. Once Mycroft knelt on the floor and peeked under the bed, he crawled back, crawling up on a ball against the wall.

"Go away."

"No." Mycroft replied, lying down on his side. "Not until you come out from down there."

"Go away. I'm not leaving and I don't want you here, looking at me."

"I can always close my eyes."

Sherlock observed his brother, his patience far from wearing thin, just standing there, lying down on the floor with his eyes closed and one hand extended to him. Mycroft was his biggest confidant, whether he liked it or not. Dad wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, at least wasn't bright enough to keep up with him. Mum was smart, but she was a mother and firstly would be concerned about him before giving him space. But Mycroft was different. He was there, as quiet as a mouse, not making any questions or appearing concerned about him, at least not in an obvious way as his parents.

Sherlock's hand slowly rested over Mycroft's one. It caused the teenager to open his eyes.

"Don't tell mum and dad about the pinches. I don't want them to be worried."

"I won't," Mycroft reassured him.

"Why did it have to be Redbeard to be sick?"

He was just a boy. Regardless of an insatiable thirsty for knowledge and a necessity of wanting everything to make sense, Sherlock was a nine-year-old boy who had just lost his dog, his biggest companion, his partner in crime, his cuddling thing for the night.

"All the things make sense, you are right about that. But, we don't always have the answers for such questions. Believe me when I say that giving you that answer would be the thing that would content me the most at the moment, but I don't have that answer."

"But he was _my_ dog," Sherlock softly whined, on the verge to start crying. Mycroft hated seeing his brother that saddened, with tears pricking in his eyes.

"Think of the possibilities. Dogs don't get sick like humans. What did the doctor say that Redbeard had?"

The two of them stayed there, on the bedroom's floor, for minutes, theorizing about what could have possibly have happened with Redbeard. Theories aside, Sherlock wanted to go out on the search for Redbeard's illness, which caused him to having to be put down, and Mycroft promptly offered his help. Sherlock accepted it. And the little Winston tagged along too, and despite their adventure not having been caused by a happy moment, they had fun.

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><p>Sherlock got up in a jump, being forced back to return to reality. He started walking around the flat, as Victoria and John looked at him puzzled, wondering what was going on with him. It was the thought of watching his doctor friend packing up his bags again that scared him; the rapid flashbacks of watching Victoria grow day by day that made longing ache already.<p>

"Is everything alright, Sherlock?" John asked.

"We can turn that empty division into a bedroom. It isn't quite large to be a proper bedroom, but the kid is orphan and will be adopted, so he shouldn't be ungracious and complain about the size of the bedroom. Or I can move to Mrs. Hudson's spare room downstairs and-"

"Sherlock!" The doctor called for the third, this time louder, which caused his train of thoughts to derail. "What do you mean with that?"

"A bedroom for Eyal. He'll need one, right?"

John's smile couldn't be broader, "Are you serious about that? What made you change your mind?"

Victoria had him and her father, and Mrs. Hudson and Molly or Lestrade, even Mycroft, Winston and his niece Rita, but she needed a sibling. She needed that one confidant. The one he had while growing up, which was his older brother. And then, posteriorly, he himself became Winston's confidant. She needed that one person that could save a secret, someone whose patience wouldn't wear thin, that would always be there with a hand extended at her, keeping quiet but still being there, keeping company.

"Everyone needs a sibling."

The doctor had to agree, "Yes, it's true."

Even if John Watson's sister wasn't the best person in the world, he had good memories of her and their time together as children. The Holmes' brother weren't so sour and cold to each other as people believed. They also had good memories of their time together.

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><p><strong>So, yeah, next chapter is the last. Hope you guys have enjoyed this fanfiction. I'll make a proper thank you note at the beginning of the next chapter. <strong>


	30. Oh No!

**It's with sadness that I announce that this is the last chapter. It has been quite a ride, this story. I've never imagine it'd come this far, that the fanfiction would be so versatile in genres and story plots, but I loved it. You readers have been amazing and I should thank you.**

**This chapter is quite small for someone who didn't upload a fanfiction in over a month, but the word count is 221, and I wanted to keep this simple and fun. **

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><p><em>Baker Street. Come ASAP. – S.H.<em>

John frowned once he read that text. He knew that Sherlock was still trying to adjust his lifestyle now that Eyal was around. Even though he was older than Victoria, he'd follow anything she'd say, so they were up to a mischief, most certainly. Eyal still felt like an outsider, so relying on Victoria was for the best.

As he entered the flat he could already hear Eyal and Victoria's laughs. He smiled. His children were having fun. Maybe it was that that was upsetting Sherlock.

When he made it to the top floor, John found Sherlock, Victoria and Eyal bathed in Coca-Cola. The kitchen pavement and counters were washed up with the liquid as well.

"What's going on in here?"

"We're doing an experiment," Victoria answered, sly smile framing her face.

Eyal nodded his head, enthusiastically as he poured more Mentos into the Coca-Cola bottles. A large jet of carbonated drink splashed up to the ceiling.

"Stop doing that!" John warned, noticing Victoria opening another bottle and dropping another Mentos in it.

Again the Coca-Cola spurred everywhere, bathing Sherlock's head who was quietly sitting next to them.

"I warned you, John." He said very calmly, "Munchkin and Hobbit are unbearable."

"We're scientists, Uncle Sherlock." Eyal spoke.

"Yup," Victoria agreed.

John laughed. Sherlock did the same.

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><p><strong>Give me your last review.<strong>

**Hope to write something for Sherlock soon... Who knows? :)**


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